


The New Horrible Normal

by abel_runners



Series: Living With It [3]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, POV Kaidan Alenko, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22138084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abel_runners/pseuds/abel_runners
Summary: When Ada Shepard dies, Kaidan is plunged into the dark. Into a new, horrible kind of normal. Words stop making sense. The sound of choked, strangled breathing dogs him around the house. Sickening nausea hits him every time he smells apple soap.Getting through this feels like way too tall an order. He has no other choice.
Relationships: Kaidan Alenko/Citadel Doctor, Kaidan Alenko/Female Shepard
Series: Living With It [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008957
Comments: 61
Kudos: 25





	1. Stasis in Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on how Kaidan handles my Shepard's death (and her eventual resurrection) during those 3 years between ME2 and ME3. Strap in for lots of Sadness and Iffy Coping. It's part 3 of my [Living With It](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008957) series, but it can be read on its own. 
> 
> I'd also like to give the warmest thank you to the folks from the Writer's Workshop. All your feedback and support on this fic has been invaluable! You're the best <3

“Isn’t she with you?”

Joker’s hunched over on the bench of the escape-shuttle. He’s alone. 

That’s.That’s not right.

Kaidan saw Ada less than ten minutes ago. She must’ve gotten in another shuttle. She’ll be here soon. She will.

“Listen.” Joker takes a shaky breath. He won’t meet Kaidan’s eye. There’s a shard of glass dug into his scalp, a thin line of blood trailing down his temple.

Where the hell is Ada?

“The explosion. She didn’t—she…” Joker finally looks up at him, and his eyes are swollen and pink. “She didn’t make it to a shuttle. She—” 

Kaidan takes a step back.

_Wait. What?_

The silver walls of the shuttle blur. Joker’s still talking but he can’t hear him. He’s _wrong_. He didn’t see it right in all the chaos. She made it to a shuttle. She _wouldn’t_ be caught out like that. Wouldn’t—wouldn’t— 

“We need to search the area. Her enviro controls won’t last forever, and I’m not going to leave her out there to freeze to death.”

He turns his back on Joker and steps out into the snow. Scattered hunks of metal are strewn out across the ice. A rain of red light up above. Far away.

Joker. He didn’t see it right. She landed somewhere else. It’s as simple as that. It has to be that simple.

A hand—Joker—grabs his wrist, glistening tears in his eyes. “No. No way you’re going out there to die! _Listen_. The suit scans. Her oxygen. It was breached. She’s not out there. Kaidan, I’m. I'm so sorry.”

Joker slumps back onto the bench, his head in shaky hands.

The snow is frigid and swirling and he doesn’t move. Stares up. Up at the burning streaks of neon-orange. Ada—no, no, _Shepard_ —is supposed to be up there? 

The ash stains the ice black. No. None of this makes any sense.

* * *

Kaidan doesn’t remember how he got to the hospital.

There was the yellow-beam. The walls of heat and black smoke. The cracks in the ice.

Joker. Slumped over and shaking.

He tries insisting that that they look for her. She _has_ to be out there. Shepard wouldn’t just—they— 

They don’t listen. They keep saying that there’s nothing left to find. The damage report from her suit was too high.

He asks anyway. Bargains. Pleads. Begs. Until his throat’s hurting and raw.

His shock-logged brain shuts off after a while, and he can’t say another word. Not that it’s helping, but…

Liara’s there for a second. Chakwas. Tali. The hospital lights buzz. He picks at the bandage on his hand. Shepard doesn’t walk in. Anderson asks him if he wants coffee. To call someone. Kaidan keeps his eyes on the door. Doesn’t answer. Can’t. Can’t.

Shepard doesn’t walk in.

* * *

Anderson made the call to Shepard’s mother. Was that crappy of him? Should he have done it instead—made it personal? Shepard called Ashley’s family after Virmire. Made the stew and comforted them and she was there. _There._ He—he’s not. He stared at his omni for an hour trying to figure out what he’d say, but he just. Couldn’t. 

He’s at his place. Walked in whenever, discharged whenever from the hospital. Vancouver glitters outside, but he doesn’t see it. Doesn’t see anything. Three missed calls from the crew. A message from Anderson that the memorial service is in a couple days time. A reminder branded red and impossible on his omni. 

A cement-heavy weight pushes deep into his chest. Won’t leave him the hell alone. 

He’s in the kitchen. Apple pie from the orchard his parents sent him is on the counter. Nothing else is looking all that appetizing, so maybe he’ll make coffee and eat some. Pull it together. He opens the cupboard, which is a mistake, because Shepard’s favorite tea is staring right back at him. The package purple and gold and shiny.

He forgot they spent a weekend of shore leave here just a few days ago. Mint tea on the balcony in the morning, and he doesn’t even like tea, only likes it when she makes it, and she shivered in the early dawn, and smiled at him, and—Jesus. How’d he forget that?

Leaning heavy on the counter. Fingertips digging into his cold-sweat forehead. 

Shepard isn’t—she never made it to an escape shuttle. 

He opens the fridge. Tries to ignore the building, bone-grinding weight sinking into his chest, but in the fridge he finds that half-finished bottle of dark wine they bought. And there’s her mint-chocolate ice-cream. And she was alone. And he didn’t stop it. He didn’t—she’s—she— 

The unrelenting weight presses, presses, and he cracks under it.

The hum of the open fridge is the backdrop to his choked sobbing.

* * *

The room smells like rose-petal perfume and mop water. 

There isn’t a body.

Garrus looks strange wearing a dark suit. 

Did Kaidan forget to thank whoever drove him here?

The bench digs into his back. Stiff. Uncomfortable. Like him. Lights are too bright in here, too. Everything’s too bright.

Her mother, Hannah. She’s the first to speak. Face pale and gaunt. _I never thought—I never thought I’d be meeting her here._ Her eyes are the exact same shade of blue as her daughter’s, and her voice carries just like Shepard’s voice carries. Carried. Will never carry again.

Kaidan presses his thumb into the still-healing burn on his hand. _Don’t get wrapped up in that. Just get through this._

Her mother’s eulogy, it’s cracking something inside him. The horror of all this is etched into the deep lines in her face. Into the purple-dark circles under her eyes. His stomach turns. God. _God._ She lost her kid. Her _child._ The fact that she’s standing on that podium at all is a miracle. Who the hell is he to stand around crying? 

Looking at her hurts, but he can’t look away. 

She talks about sides of Shepard he never got to know, the things she only told him about, low and quiet in the mess. Her drunken teenage rebellion. The way she’d scamper through space-stations with Julia on her heels as a kid, play-acting scenes from whatever vid they’d rented. Her mom stops in the middle of a sentence for a long time. Stares out into the crowd, and she looks dead, too. Then her shoulders rise with a deep breath. And she finishes with a story about a sunny hike and Shepard's blueberry pancakes.

He can’t feel his hands when he drifts up to the podium after her. He’s talking. He’s pretty sure whatever he’s saying is making sense because Chakwas is nodding at him, and he tells that funny story about Shepard and the otters at the aquarium. Gets people to half-laugh along with it. But he can’t hear himself. All he can do is stare at the flowers in the room. White roses and—what were they called? Shepard told him. He knows that. He can’t remember.

When he sits back down, there’s music. Alliance, loud, blue-bright and stupidly hopeful. A blur of faces with the same condolences as they file out of the building. Joker looking egg-white pale. And that must be Julia, the Julia she told him so much about. And then, in the slushy, winter air there’s the click of reporters. Fish-lens cameras filming their blotched faces. 

A dark, hot rage flares up inside him as they filter down the stairs, and the low buzz of biotics shoots through his knuckles, teeth grit until they hurt. He could break every camera into pieces with a few standard movements. It’d be easy. Simple. The hard lump in his throat would quit for a second, and he could shield her from this. From all of this.

The choking grip of rage flickers out two steps down the stairs. He’s so tired, and she wouldn’t have wanted… 

Damn it. What the hell does he know about what she would’ve wanted? He can’t even remember the name of her favorite flowers.

* * *

Kaidan locks the front door behind him. Leans on the wall. 

He doesn’t have to do this. 

He could keep ignoring every mention of the attack like he has for the past, what, three days? Five? However long it’s been since the memorial service, anyway. He _could_ make his way back to the station, get to Udina’s office, and give the OSD back. Hell, he could even toss it into the bay or shove it into his trash can. He turns over the slim, sleek optical storage drive in his hands. It looks like nothing much. Could be nothing much if he wanted it to.

_We never got a body._

No. He’s not turning back now.

He sits down in front of his terminal. Plugs the drive in. The file pops up. He clicks it, and there’s the _play_ button right there. The sun’s gone down on Vancouver’s skyline, so it’s just him and the fuzzy glow. There’s still time to stop. No one’s got a gun to his head. Throwing it out is still on the table.

He hits play.

The thing about the Normandy’s blackbox is that it has both their comms _and_ vid footage. Everything’s fine. Pressley wanders from the galaxy map over to the bridge. Draven’s chatting with someone Kaidan can’t totally make out. Her sister, maybe. Board is green. All systems online. Everything’s fine.

Until it’s not. 

The board flashes red, systems go offline, alarms blare loud. Panicked comms come through. Joker initiates evasive maneuvers. Kaidan presses a hand to his mouth, hunching over himself. Oh, _god_. Oh god, oh god. He can’t watch this, but he can’t _move._ All he can do is stare as the Normandy’s deck gets ripped to shreds.

“Distress beacon is ready for launch.” 

The whole room lurches.

It’s—her. Her voice. Leaking out of his speakers. Distorted, backed by static, but _there._

His hands rush over to the keyboard. He pauses it on a frame filled with yellow light. The low, steady timbre of her voice keeps on echoing inside him, bounces back, fills every nook and cranny. Acid burns the back of his throat. This—this was a bad idea. Seeing it—seeing them all go down. The Draven sisters, Marcus, a snapped neck and— 

He stares at that frozen frame. Stares. Stares.

There’s more of her in there. Answers. Waiting for him to hit play. So it’s not ending here. It _can’t_. 

The footage starts up again. He knows he’s on comms too, but he doesn’t hear it. All that’s left is her.

“The Alliance won’t abandon us. We just need to hold on. Get everyone onto the escape shuttles.”

The screen is still blotted out, but he knows there’s a fire extinguisher gripped in his hands. The hard casing through his gloves.

“Kaidan. Go. _Now._ ”

And he does. He did. Why did he do that? Why the hell did he _leave—_? 

It’s not over. There are things he never got the chance to hear, and they’re _new,_ and she’s here. _Here._

“Come on, Joker! We need to get out of here.”

The static worsens. He turns up the volume on his terminal to its loudest.

“The Normandy’s lost. Going down with the ship won’t change that.”

When did his hands start shaking this bad? Another shrieking, metal-rending noise cuts through the vid and through him, too. Can’t see a thing. Joker and her armored outline are lost in all the black smoke.

His teeth clench shut against a surge of acidic, yellow bile.

A resounding, blown-out _boom_ and the footage goes dark— _no!_ Kaidan scrambles, going for the keyboard— _that can’t be it—_ when he hears _breathing._ All his muscles lock, freezing him in place.

Her comms. They’re still on.

Long, calculated breaths fill his living room. Things are okay. She’s breathing slow, so it’s fine. She’ll make it out.

And then there’s a snap. A hiss.

Long, calculated breaths morph into ragged, gulping gasps.

Garbled, frantic wheezing. 

Sharp, high-pitched choking.

A sound like a dog’s throat getting stepped on.

Nothing. 

The terminal asks: _replay?_

He. He can’t move. That sound was Shepard. It was _her_. She was suffocating in dark space. The reports from her suit didn’t lie. It’s like someone severed all the wires in his brain. He doesn’t—he _can’t_ get it.

_Replay?_

No. Of course not. He won’t come back from it.

He fumbles for the play button anyway, numb and cold. That can’t be _it._ There must be more. Something he didn’t see. Something he did wrong. 

He hits play. Once. Twice. The sun rises and he’s still huddled in his chair, trembling and pale. The footage loops one more time. More of him gets scooped out and crushed flat with every replay. His chest stopped burning a few hours ago. Isn’t it supposed to? A broken heart. Something’s broken inside him, but as he stares at the screen, there’s nothing. No blood-pumping warmth. No sharp stabs of pain. Nothing.

Nothing. Just like Ashley. Just like Marcus and Rose and Pressley. Twenty-two crew, nothing. 

And her. _Her._ Nothing.

He watches it again.

* * *

The sound of her strangled, gasping breathing dogs him around the apartment. 

In the shower, right behind the rush of the water he hears gulping, wet gasps. In the kitchen, he’s mopping and blasting the loudest rock he can find but her choking is threaded through the bass. He finally picks up a call from his parents and in the silences between their sentences there’s her wheezing. Falling asleep’s impossible. Wearing earplugs makes it worse—all he can hear is her strangled inhale on loop, no street sounds to mask it. Sometimes he watches the footage again, hoping that maybe he’ll make sense of it this time. He’ll figure out who the hell hit the Normandy out of nowhere, or why he followed that order to leave, or why Shepard ended up in that burning cockpit and not him. Why she isn’t _here._

A couple days later, maybe, his parents come in through the door carrying flowers and ceramic dishes. Dad gives him a warm, one-armed hug and Mom’s saying something sweet, something about _sorry it took us so long to make it over here_ and _how are you, I’m so sorry_ but the gasping’s still there. Of course it doesn’t go away. He wouldn’t be so lucky to get a damn break. 

Not that he deserves one.

“I’m. You know. Dealing. How was the drive?”

“They’re doing some work on 88 so it got iffy for a minute, but we made it in one piece. Brought you your favorites, too.” His dad, smiling, but scruffier and paler than he’s seen him in a while, holds up the dishes: _medivynk_ —honey cake—and his mom’s best homemade _ah balling,_ and Kaidan gives him a weary smile. All they want to do is be there for him but he’s already exhausted. A long weekend, even if he gets to eat cake and soft, sweet-yam filled rice balls. Even then.

The next morning, he’s brewing coffee and trying to shake the nervous jitters that swamped him the second he opened his eyes. Sure, the coffee won’t exactly take the edge off things, but if he’s going to keep his parents happy he can’t take too many naps. His mom walks into the kitchen, her hand brushing his shoulder as she heads for the living room. 

“I’ll just use your terminal to answer my messages, alright? Andrea’s pestering me again. Oh, and your father went out for bagels, so don’t fill up too much before he gets back. We can finish his cake, too.” 

Kaidan nods and blankly stares at the slow-drip of the coffee pot. He’s lucky Shepard never really liked coffee. At least he can drink _something_ without getting too nauseous about it. Still. The wheezing’s so thick. The hiss of the coffee pot and the hiss of the—

“Kaidan. What’s this?” His mom’s dark eyes stare at him from the breakfast bar, her jaw set hard. 

The drive. It’s in her hands.

Oh, _crap._

“It’s—” The coffee machine beeps. He lifts the pot off, fingers gripped white around the handle. Crap. _Crap._ “It’s nothing. Just a file for work.”

“I know it’s not just work, honey. You left it open. So I take it you’ve watched it?” She walks over. Puts a warm hand on his shoulder. He steps away, focusing hard on the coffee pot. “How are you doing? You can talk to me. To us.”

He sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek and pours the coffee into the mug. “I’m fine. I just needed to get the facts straight. That’s all. You want coffee?”

“No, that’s okay. Let’s sit down instead.” 

Too tired to protest—knowing she won’t let up—he gives in. Follows her over to the breakfast bar. Slumps down in a chair and stares at the flecked granite on the counter-top. Counting each speck. 

“Where’d you get this file?” 

“Udina, but it’s fine. Really. I know what I’m doing.”

_How was I so stupid? Leaving the file open? God._

Her hand on his forearm, just like after Vyrnnus, and Ash, and. And he wants to crawl back into bed. Or out of himself. Either one. “What happened to the Normandy crew and to Shepard was awful, sweetheart, but there’s no need to make it worse for yourself.”

_Don’t do this._

“I’m not making it worse. I’m okay. Seriously.”

“You’ve lost a lot. Watching the raw footage of it—well, I don’t think that’ll help you deal with it.” His mom’s voice is gentle and low, but it can’t reach him. Won’t. God, he does _not_ want to be having this conversation. He just wants his coffee, his OSD, and to be left _alone._ But his sluggish, tired brain can’t come up with something that’ll make this stop.

“I’m dealing with it fine. Don’t worry.”

“I can’t _help_ but worry. I can tell you’re in a lot of pain, and this,” she holds up the OSD, “is just hurting you more.”

Kaidan’s eyebrows push together, dread creeping into his stomach. Wait. She’s got that Alenko-stubborn look in her eyes; that lined determination in her tawny-brown face. Like she wants to—oh, _no. No._ He needs that thing. He still hasn’t figured it out, and he can’t lose Shepard’s _voice._ It’s the last thing he has. 

“So you’re just gonna, what, throw it out the window?” A strangled chuckle. “I promise it’s _fine_.”

“Kaidan. Losing a ship, job and part of your crew is hard enough as it is. I know how important they were to you. But you and Ada,” he winces at the mention of her name, “were just at the start of something special. Watching the footage of her getting _spaced_? All you’re doing is making this ten times more excruciating. I’m sorry, but I can’t stand around while you do that to yourself.”

She’s on her feet. Walking over to trash. His heart crawls up into his throat. No. _No._ He can’t _afford_ to lose anything else.

His mom tosses it into the trash and ties up the bag before he can say anything else. “There. No more torture. Your father and I will talk to Udina and make sure there’s no more copies of it floating around, okay?” She hefts the bag out of the can and heads towards the door.

He's motionless in his chair. No. _What?_

His dad walks in right then, paper bag full of bagels in his hands. “Oh, hey. You headed out?”

“Just taking out the trash. Be right there.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

His father rummages around the cupboards behind him. A plate clinks on the counter. Kaidan still can’t move, gaze stuck and burning on the door. What the hell just happened? 

“You sleep much, son? Here. Let me fix one of these bagels up for you. Want some cake, too? And, you know, the Canucks are playing tonight. It’s too late for tickets, but I thought we might all watch it.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s on Alchera. Ash stains the ice black, and Shepard’s voice is lost up in the big, black sky. Again.

* * *

“The Alliance officially declared geth were involved in the attack on the Alliance vessel _Normandy SR-1_ two weeks ago. Pockets of hostile geth were spotted in the area, and...” 

Kaidan shuts off the TV. Geth. Right. The blackbox footage made it pretty clear it wasn’t geth. Footage which he can’t check to make sure anymore, yeah, but it’s not like he could forget. He _should_ be more pissed off that the Alliance is shoving everything under a rug, but he can’t find it in him to care about the geth, or the attack, or any of it. He should care, right? Yeah. He should. Shepard cared. She cared so _much._ She fought tooth and nail to save the whole galaxy, worked so damn _hard_ , and what are they doing to repay her? Dismantling everything she did piece by piece, smoothing her over into something easy to swallow. Making it go away. Making _her_ go away. 

And he can’t feel it.

He drags a hand over his dry, bloodshot eyes and sighs. Jesus. He needs to get it together. He needs to keep fighting the fight she started. To stop hiding like he did after Vyrnnus. A stupid instinct he still can’t shake.

His omni flashes. Four missed calls. Two from Caleb, one from Chakwas, another from Liv. A days-old text from his mother: _Just checking in. We got home fine. Call us when you get the chance, okay? Love you, sweetie._

He should probably do that. He should probably do a lot of things. Like finish the dishes. Like buy actual groceries. Function.

He deletes the notifications. Sits there picking at the leftovers of the food his folks brought over. Doesn’t move a muscle. The morning bleeds away, just like every morning. His omni flashes again. When he looks at the screen—a news alert he doesn’t read—a piercing, hot pain flares up behind his left eye. Oh, _great_. Just what he needed. His vision blurs, sparks of light right at the edges. He should go take his meds and lay down in a dark room. Take care of the migraine. Of himself.

He doesn’t. 

The migraine builds and builds and burns through him. The bright light flooding in from the window sharpens it, but he doesn’t close the blinds. Curls into the corner of the couch instead. And then it’s four in the afternoon, he’s nauseous, the leftovers are cold, and he can hear her choking. 

The choking. Always. Did her parents find the footage, too? Did they watch it? Do they hear it? God. Her parents. Family. How’s Shepard’s mom doing? Her dad? They lost their daughter. Their _child._

He doesn’t have the right to mope around about any of this.

He crawls into bed and—damn it. He didn’t call anyone back. Forgot to brush his teeth, and forgot to take the trash out, and forgot what brand of shampoo she used. 

He’s forgetting.

* * *

Kaidan crosses, uncrosses, crosses his ankles in the lumpy, woolen armchair as he checks off the last box on the form. This whole room is too stuffy. Smells like wet dog and budget scented candles. And it’s hot. This _had_ to be the one place the Alliance didn’t cheap out on the heating, huh? 

“Thanks for filling those out. Now, it’d be great if you could tell me a little more about what brings you here.”

He gives his counselor—Jennifer Edkins, was it? He’ll go with Edkins—an empty smile. He's empty. Where there’s supposed to be warm blood, nerve-endings, the hard kick of a heartbeat—there’s still nothing. It’s just more of that flat, dull nothing he’s felt ever since he watched the footage. Ever since Alchera, maybe.

“You’ve seen the news. I’m sure you can guess why.”

“I know the basics. But I’d like to hear it from you, if that’s okay.” Edkins’ chestnut eyes are nothing but endless patience and warmth, and Kaidan has to resist the urge to get up and walk out. He’s gotta do this if he wants to get back to work. All he has to do is play his part. 

“Well. The ship I was serving on went down. The Alliance requires counselling after an adverse event in the field.” He taps his fingers on the wooden armrest. “So here I am.” The cool, calm removal he’s going for falters, some of the blank, dull nothingness ebbing away. Sweat beads at his hairline. Sure, he can’t leave the house most days and he hasn’t eaten a full meal since the funeral, so maybe he could use a hand up. But talking about it? All _that_ might do is crack him completely. Just like the therapist he got after Vyrnnus. He talked and she invalidated the hell out of him and he—can’t. Can’t do that again. Not safe.

“I know the protocol, but I meant on a more personal level. How have you been holding up?”

There’s that shakiness in his hands. He clasps them until pain shoots up his knuckles. “I don’t know. Alright. I’ve been seeing people. Eating. Handling it.”

“That’s good. So, you’ve been in contact with the others on your team?”

“Oh, uh, no. We saw each other at the memorial, but we all needed some space. You know.”

Edkins leans back in her chair and tilts her head at him. Observing. Like she’s picking at a loose thread inside him. “I imagine it’s hitting hard for everyone. You lost a lot of good people. A lot of friends. And Commander Shepard, well.” He tenses at her name. “Am I correct in saying that you and her had a more intimate relationship?” 

He inhales sharp, throat burning. Is she supposed to know that? 

“Don’t worry. Confidentiality applies here, so you can talk about your relationship freely.”

“I. Alright. Yeah. We were close.” A sharp line of pain stabs through his chest. _Shepard’s hand gripping his in the farmer’s market. Her nose crinkling every time she laughs._ Edkins says something he doesn’t hear. “Sorry. What?”

“I was saying that losing someone who meant a lot to you is no easy thing. Anyone in your shoes would be struggling.”

The thread holding him together tugs. Loosens an inch. He takes a deep breath of the thick, sickly-sweet air. _Just get through these six sessions. That’s it._

“Yeah.”

Edkins’ mouth tugs down into a frown and then she softens her shoulders. Shepard would do the same thing when he’d talk his way around something. Kaidan looks away. “I understand that this is hard to talk about. Especially in the first session. I have no problem with starting slow, but if I’m going to help you through this, I’ll need something to work with.” 

“I know. But I think I need some more time before I start getting into it, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. I’m not here to interrogate you, so we’ll move at your pace.”

He stares at the wilting plant on the table. 

_Why was I the one to make it out?_


	2. Exposed to Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the tags for panic attacks and dissociation for this one, y'all. Kaidan's not having a good time.

Kaidan’s trying to choke down a sandwich an hour after his first session with Edkins when his omni beeps.

_Be there in fifteen, Alenko! Caleb’s bringing beer._

_Crap_. He runs a hand through his dishevelled hair. He completely forgot he’d agreed to meet up with them today—and he does _not_ have the energy for it. Staring at his omni, he tries to work up the guts to cancel. It’d be shitty of him, but he doubts Liv and Caleb want to spend time with someone who can barely keep his head upright, let alone be anything close to _fun._

The doorbell rings way too soon. Well. No cancelling now. He tosses his half-eaten sandwich away. Sweeps his eyes over the room. Alright, good, it’s still sort of clean from when his parents were here. He heads over to the door.

“Hey, Kaidan.” Caleb gives him a one-handed hug, the other full of a case of beer. “Got you some of that IPA stuff you like.”

Liv squeezes his shoulder. “It’s been too long. Appreciate you having us.”

Kaidan’s head feels stuffed with thick cotton after the session. He tries for a smile anyway. “Yeah. No problem. Just put your coats over here.”

They do, and Caleb heads for the kitchen and rummages for glasses. His curly hair’s longer than the last time he saw him, the edges shaved close to his warm, dark skin. Liv parks herself on the couch—she’s different, too. She’s got bangs now, framing her pale face and stark green eyes. God. How long’s it been since he’s actually seen them in person? Feels like forever. Looks like forever, that’s for sure.

He’s just sinking into the couch when a tall glass of dark beer is offered to him, and Caleb drops down onto the armchair.

“Oh. Thanks.”

Caleb gives him a soft, sunny smile that grates against his skin. Too much. This is way too much. “We thought you’d probably need a drink after—well, after what happened.” The smile falls off his face. “Jesus, I’m so sorry, Kay. To have it end like that is just awful.”

The thread inside him Edkins tugged at loosens a little more. Kaidan shifts his gaze towards his beer. “It’s fine. Well, I guess it’s not, but I’m dealing with it. This’ll probably help.” 

He takes a big sip of the drink. Hints of citrus, passion fruit, and pine get through to him. 

He nearly spits it back into the bottle. 

This is the— _God,_ out of all the IPAs Kaidan showed Shepard, this is the one she liked the best: _Good pick. You and your IPA thing is growing on me, babe._

“It’s good, right?”

His chest is a field on fire, any blank numbness fading fast. _It’s not good!_ He wants to snarl at them. _No! None of this is fucking good!_ He doesn’t, swallowing the soured sip of beer instead and mumbling, “It’s great. Yeah.” 

Long, heavy silence settles over the room. Every part of him wants to get them out of here, pour the beer down the drain, and wash his mouth out. He knows he can’t do that. Shouldn’t. Not when he’s known these two since basic. They’ve always been there, pulling him out of his head and into the world. And they’re _here_ right now. Still. They’ve only been at his place for less than five minutes and he’s already on the verge of losing it.

“Seriously, though, I can’t imagine how tough this must be. We’re here for you, you know?” Liv nudges her shoulder with his. He does his best to not lean away.

“We are. When I lost my nana last year, I was a mess for a long time, you know? So if you need us to do laundry, help out with cooking or just talk about it, say the word, okay?”

His hands twitch. He wants to press them into his sternum. Massage the burning out. Can't, of course. “Thanks. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know. I’m not really in the mood to talk about it right now, though.” 

“No problem. We came prepared.” Liv reaches for the remote on the coffee table and boots up her omni. In two seconds a _way_ too familiar theme song floats from his TV.

“ _How It’s Made_? Really?” 

Caleb moves to the couch next to them, taking a swig of his beer. “Hey, you know we wouldn’t have gotten through basic without it. But if you want something else, we’ve got last season’s biotic WWE matches all here, too.”

“This is fine. Haven’t watched it in a while.” 

His friends give him gentle, warm smiles. A lukewarm sense of softness spreads through him. Soothes some of the raw ache in his chest. Everything’s crap right now, but he’s gotta admit: he _is_ pretty damn lucky these two decided to stick around. 

Liv puts a couple of bowls of popcorn and chips on the table, lowering the lights. The city shimmers outside, and the glow of the TV coats the room in a milky blue. Kaidan abandons the beer on the table—no more of that, that’s for sure—and leans back into the couch. The slow, humming voice of the show’s narrator comes on, and with it, nights of plastic chairs and watery coffee come back to him. Easier nights.

Caleb tosses a knitted blanket over their feet. Liv brings a bowl of the popcorn onto her lap and offers him some. Kaidan eats a handful, curling his feet underneath him. 

_How It’s Made_ is the same as it’s always been. Mechanical, understandable machinery fills the screen. Something he can _get_. There’s no dark space. Just the comforting warmth of his two friends beside him, their quiet laughter, the salt of the popcorn and the steadiness of the narrator’s voice. The sun goes down easy. A few of the muscles in his back relax.

He’s glad he didn’t kick them out after all.

* * *

Kaidan can’t remember why he decided to go for a walk. He _had_ a good reason, but by the time he’d gotten three blocks down the street it slipped his mind. So he just kept going. Not like he’s doing much else these days. Three weeks in and he’s still…well. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s outside. He’s trying. 

He’s down by Nelson Park. The grass is still coated with a thin layer of frost. Tiny, barely-there buds cling onto the trees. There are people milling around with strollers and packed lunches in the weak sunlight. At least it’s a nice day. Liv did say the weather was going to get better this week. He automatically counts heads at first, but after a minute he averts his gaze to the cracked sidewalk. Shepard’s not there. Ashley’s not. Pressly’s not. Rose’s not, either. Nothing to see. He zips up his jacket and keeps walking. Maybe he’ll grab a bite down by the beach. 

A reverberating, grinding sound splits the air in two.

He whips his head over to the ear-piercing noise. What the _hell_ is that? 

It takes him a few panicked seconds of staring into the park before it clicks. Oh. Right. That’s just a jackhammer. Construction on the park’s playground, probably.

_Keep walking._

He swallows. Pushes forward. Gets a few steps away from it. But something’s off. It’s like he’s touched a raw wire—all clammy heat and twitchy, trembling fingers. And the sound. The sound’s crawled deep under his skin. He darts another look behind him. He’s gotta get away from it. Too loud. Too much. The sidewalk’s not a straight line anymore. Something’s going south.

Kaidan’s palms are damp as he speeds up. Three more benches and he’ll be back on the main street, and he’ll be fine. Away from the noise. 

What if he’s _not_ fine? 

Something’s off. The air’s too thin in this weather. In Vancouver. Two more benches. That damn jackhammer isn’t quieting down: loud, grinding, bouncing off the concrete buildings. His heartbeat’s in his temples. The main street’s two feet away, traffic clogged. He can’t catch his breath. Sick. Sick, clammy, dizzy. Has to get out. Has to get somewhere quiet. Home? No. No. Too far. Won’t make it. He staggers into the shadows of the skyscrapers, gaze darting along the street. Neon-fuzzy colors. Billboards. A child shrieks against the red of a balloon. His throat constricts another inch—he’ll choke. She choked. 

He needs _—_ he _needs_ quiet. 

He pushes the closest glass door open—café. It’s worse. Crowded as hell. Voices talk over each other, cacophony, plates clatter. Heat blasting on high, condensation on the windows. 

He has to get out of here. Shepard ordered him to. He doesn’t know if she’ll make it out. 

Bathroom tiles and a buzzing fluorescent light but it’s quiet. Quieter. Locking a stall shut, he presses a shaky hand into his eyes. Tries to breathe, but she can't breathe, and he can still hear—he can still hear the damn jackhammer. Somewhere. There’s the hard casing of the fire extinguisher in his hands, and the alarm’s on loop, and— 

_I need to be sure she’ll make it out._

His stomach lurches, the prickly heat on his skin boiling hot. It's so goddamn _hot_ in here. Sweat gathers at his arms, hairline, back. Something's on fire. 

Knees finally give. He collapses down on the closed toilet seat. 

_I’m gonna die here._

Heavy boots on the tile.

Kaidan’s head flies up. Someone’s here. Them. The things that did this. _Here._

He bites into his tongue. A stall door slams shut, and he flinches so hard he hits his elbow on the wall. Dull pain bleeds through his arm but he doesn’t make a sound, keeps all his muscles tense, waits. Waits. Doesn’t breathe because breathing out of turn means dying and Vyrnus knows that. No. Not Vyrnnus. The _things_ that did this to Shepard, to the crew. Here.

Stall creaks open. Faucet on. He listens to every movement, eyes focused on a piece of gum stuck to the floor. Heart beating so hard against his chest he’s sure it’ll burst. Waiting. Waiting. Forever.

Heavy boots leave. The main door clicks shut.

Quiet again. All quiet. 

Just him.

He leans his head onto the wall, exhaling a shaky breath. The tile’s cool against his hot forehead. The vent above him isn’t loud. Not a jackhammer. Not her choking in dark space, not the crack of Marcus’ neck against the floor. Just a whirring fan that sticks, starts. Sticks. Keeps going.

_The ship that did this. Still out there. Waiting._

He pushes his head harder onto the tile as another wave of sickly, slimy nausea washes through him. Goddamn it. Tears sting at the edges of his vision. He sniffs, eyes squeezing shut.

He wants this to _stop_.

Too slowly, but eventually. Eventually, the waves of nausea burn a little less. The clenched fist of pain in the middle of his chest loosens an inch or two. The tense muscles in his curled-up shoulders loosen. Some of the soapy, musky air of the bathroom works through his lungs again. 

He takes a few deep breaths. Six. Ten. Twenty. Drags his hands over his face and stays there for a while. 

Exhaling out. Shaky. Yeah. Okay. He’s here. Here. In a dingy bathroom somewhere in the city. No ship, no enemies, no extinguisher in his hands. Just him, alive, here, breathing.

He rubs at his eyes again, trying to get rid of the blurriness. Stares at that piece of gum on the floor. God. The floor’s looking pretty good right about now. He just wants to lay down on the cool tile and take a long nap. He fumbles for his omni instead—checks the time. It’s late. A lot later than he thought it was, and he can’t live in this bathroom forever. 

He gets to his feet, unsteady, leaning his hands on the stall door. The dizziness is still pretty bad, his head heavier than a bowling ball, but he’s up. That’s a start.

At the sink. Hands under the tap. The icy cold feels good. Doesn’t dare to glance up into the mirror—he already knows he looks like crap. On his way out of the café, a server stares at him. 

“You alright, sir?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Fine.”

Kaidan stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks out into the cold air.

He takes the bus home—no way he’ll risk running into another construction site. His eyelids are swollen, weighing heavy as he stares out the window. Not taking anything in. Almost misses his stop. 

He swings the door to his place open. Keys on the hook. Door shut and locked twice.

 _Finally_. Quiet. The only sounds here are the hum of the fridge and the distant, muffled bustle of traffic. Inhaling the stale air, he rests heavy on the wall. Still so tired. Still aching for a nap. He manages to shed his coat, some of the stuffy heat he’d been wrapped up in going with it. He stumbles over to the couch and sinks into it. 

His stomach churns as he sits there. Something’s still off.

His boots pinch the sides of his toes—yeah, that’s it. With the fumbling feeling he’s had in his hands ever since he left the café bathroom, untying his bootlaces is pretty much an impossible feat. A breath in. He can breathe fine. The air’s fine in here. Okay. One lace. Tug. Loosen. Tug. Then the other. Loosen. Tug. He kicks the boots off after an embarrassing amount of time. The clock on the wall tells him he’s supposed to eat lunch, but no. That’s not happening. Too tired. Eyelids closing. Muscles heavy. Like wet cement.

He falls asleep on the couch. Doesn’t wake up for lunch, and he sleeps through dinner. 

He takes the long way around Nelson Park after that.

* * *

Kaidan stares at the plant on the table. Tissues right next to it. The plant’s mostly green leaf. His parents would know the type, probably. Not that he’ll ask.

Behind Edkins’ head, another minute on the clock ticks by.

He hasn’t said a word for fifteen of those minutes. Well, that’s not totally true. She’s asked a few questions about his sleeping and eating patterns and he’s given her one-word answers. Completely useless info, so yeah, it’s like he hasn’t said crap.

He sighs out slow. He _knows_ he’s being difficult. Unhelpful. And Edkins is here to help. At least, she seems to be better than the terrible therapist they assigned him after Vyrnnus. Safer. Maybe. His eyes drift to her for a second. She gives him a patient, encouraging smile.

His gaze darts back to the ceramic pot. The plant’s soil looks a little dry. Might need watering.

More silence. The heater in here whirrs. Sticks. Starts.

Like the one in the bathroom from a couple days back. 

At the thought of the park and the café, a faint sheen of heat washes over him. Kaidan swallows. He doesn’t want that to happen again. _Ever_.

A scowl. He takes a deep inhale of the sickly-sweet air.

“I’ve been feeling, uh. I’ve been feeling jumpy lately. On edge.”

His stomach burns the second he says it. He waits for Edkins to say something that’ll make him feel worse, or small, or to tell him that he’s just making crap up.

“That makes sense. You went through an awful, terrifying thing. Is it okay if I ask how that feels for you? In your body, I mean.”

He blinks. His body? That’s a new one. “Well. I get nauseous, I guess. Overheated.” He crosses his ankles, boot digging into his leg. “My heartrate goes up.”

“Mm. That’s intense. Dealing with that on the regular must take a lot out of you. Are those feelings connected to anything in particular? If there’s anything that sets them off, I mean.” 

Jackhammer. Dropping a glass. The smell of apples. Vacuum cleaner. 

He’s saying something else. “No. Not that I can think of.”

“That’s okay. Grief and stress can do weird things to us.” 

“There’s a way to get rid of it, right? Or stop it. Or something. I mean. That’s the whole point of this. To make it—stop.”

Edkins’ eyes soften at the corners. “Getting rid of it’s a tall order, but there are ways to help your body feel less keyed up, yes. If you’re asking about getting rid of the grief—I’m sorry. That’s a different story.”

The acidic burning in his stomach crawls up into his chest. “I know I’m supposed to, well, _process_ it, but I can’t grieve this forever, doc. I have to move on sometime.”

“I understand. And you will be able to rebuild. Integrate the loss. But you’re still in the early days of this, don’t you think? I think it’s okay to still be hurting. To cut yourself some slack.”

He slumps forward in the armchair. Lapses back into a long, weighty silence.

It’s almost been a month. Maybe more. The line between _early days_ and being _pathetically stuck_ is looking a lot blurrier to him right about now.

* * *

The sun’s already set when Kaidan pulls into the parking lot, the only light coming from the orange, hazy glow of streetlights and the grocery store sign. He turns off the motor, sighing into the chilly gloom of the car.

_Easy in, easy out. You can’t live on deli soup and bagels forever, Alenko._

His mouth dries out at the thought of walking into the store. Maybe he should just order takeout again. Deal with this tomorrow.

No. He can shop for his own groceries. It’s not _hard._ It shouldn’t be, at least.

He climbs out of the car, squares his shoulders, and walks over to the entrance. Unlocks a basket. Heads in.

The bright, fluorescent lights pierce his eyes. There’s tinny, jarring music playing. The bustle of conversation, the insistent, constant beeps of cashiers. He wants to walk right back out, his heartbeat thudding way too hard in his fingertips.

No. _No_. He can do this. He has to.

The vegetable section’s up first. He grabs some bananas. Checks where the exit is. Tomatoes. Lettuce. He passes a man in a gray tracksuit and glances at his hands. Slices of ham. A woman in a bomber jacket and his gaze sticks on her hands, too. Checking. Making sure. 

Okay. _Safe._

He makes his way through each aisle with calculated, methodical focus. His heartbeat stays in his fingertips but it doesn’t beat any harder. A gallon of milk. A loaf of bread. Pasta.

_See? This isn’t so bad._

He turns the corner and heads into the coffee section. He absentmindedly scans the different packs. It shifts into tea. He’s still not the biggest fan of it, but everyone says chamomile’s good, right? For sleep. 

Mint. The pack gold and emerald.

He goes cold, all the blood draining from his hands.

Here. And on the Normandy. Turning the cardboard over in her hands. The yellow kitchen light. Navy-blue mugs.

_You want some tea, Lieutenant?_

His hands loosen their grip on his basket. He stares at the pack. Gold. Emerald. Mint. She made it for him, and he only—only liked it when she did. The rest of the store fades out into grainy, meaningless static. He can’t—think. He can’t think.

The blurry figure of an elderly woman next to him. She grabs a box of tea. Walks off. Kaidan’s feet are numb. Stuck in place. His eyes sting. Hard lump in his throat.

Can’t think.

His basket bumps into the tea, rattling. His gaze pulls back to the criss-crossing metal of it. Milk. Bread. Bananas?

 _What?_ What’s he doing here? The man in the tracksuit bustles past. A child in a neon-orange jacket sprints across the shiny tile. 

What’s anyone _doing_ here?

Walking. He’s walking away. Basket’s not with him. Doesn’t know where he left it, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no feeling in his hands. No heartbeat anymore. Dead hands.

In the car. His vision’s off. Weird. A glassy, wet film coating his eyes. What happened to his groceries again? 

His head clunks back onto the headrest. God, he shouldn’t drive like this, automated steering switched on or not. Something bad will happen if he does. Still. He can’t stay here forever either. Maybe. Maybe he’ll just have to risk it.

His clumsy, stiff hands reach for his seatbelt. Brush up against the clip—and metallic _cold_ shoots through his fingers. He blinks. Presses his fingers harder into the feeling. Biting, icy cold. Hard metal.

What was that thing Edkins told him to do? Some technique. Something about bringing himself back. Sensation.

The air. It’s cold, too. Yeah, he can see his breath. He focuses in on the chill spreading over his cheeks. How each breath hurts the inside of his nose. What else? He reaches out towards the windshield—smooth, cold glass. Condensation wet on his fingertips. He stomps his feet on the floor. Dull heat in his toes. He has toes. That’s a start. Cold air. Feet. What else?

Gum in his pocket. He gets out a piece. Bites into it. The bright taste of peppermint floods his mouth. He chews it. Chews some more. Flexes his bloodless hands.

Some of the filminess in his vision fades off. He can feel the edges of his shoulders again. Hear the rumble of cars pulling in and out of the parking lot.

_Mint tea. She’ll never drink it again._

He leans his head on the steering wheel, the hard lump in his throat getting bigger. Crap.

The hard plastic of the wheel pushes into his eyebrow. All his attention pulls to that. On the cold air. On the bite of the peppermint in his mouth. He kicks the floor hard and centers in on the prickly burning that bleeds into his heel. 

Okay. Okay.

He’s here. In himself. The tea’s gone.

Starting the car. Pulling out of the lot carefully. Chewing another piece of gum.

He drives home slow, but safe, and doesn’t hit anything or anyone. He orders takeout. 

Maybe he’ll try the store again tomorrow.

* * *

The trail’s littered with loose rocks and slippery mud. It’s one that doesn’t get much traffic. Just like he wanted. 

He’s three miles in and it’s only getting steeper. Knotted, wet roots grow into the path every few steps. He pushes through them, his thighs burning and aching as he heaves himself up the path. It’s what he gets for doing pretty much nothing for weeks on end. Fatigue isn’t the worst part of it, though—his jacket’s about soaked through. His lunch should be fine in his pack, but that’ll be about the only thing that stays dry or warm. The bright-pink ribbons tied on the trees are barely visible through the rain and dense fog—it’s a crappy day for a hike. He could just go home.

The muscles in his jaw twitch. _No_. He’s not turning around now. He started this hike, so he’ll finish it.

There’s a muffled crack behind him. He stops in his tracks, darting a look behind him—just more rocks and bushes. He looks for a second longer, breathing shallower. Just needs to be sure. All he hears is the steady patter of rain on his hood. The distant calls of birds. No movement, no noise. Must’ve been a squirrel.

It’s just him.

He shoulders his pack higher and continues his slow climb up the path. If he’s lucky, the rain will stop by the time he gets to the top. And maybe he’ll get some sun.

Sun. The smell of sage. Wait. Sage?

_Come on, let’s take one by the view—whoa, watch it. I don't want to have to tell your parents I killed you taking a selfie._

His body goes rigid, like someone hit him hard with an overload.

 _No._ _Focus._ He’s _not_ thinking about the last time he went hiking. He’s in Vancouver. He’s deep in the woods. There’s no view, no selfie, no strong, freckled arm around his shoulder. No peaches in a backpack and a muddy-red boulder. No almond lip-balm. He scowls at the wet rocks, digging the toes of his boots deeper into the mud. Focus. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of—

_I could do this forever, Kaidan._

His lungs burn. The lump in his throat comes back. He steadies himself with a hand on a tree. _Let me hike. Please_. He stares up at the evergreen pine. Follows the branches up until the tips gets lost in the dense fog. Rain slides down his cheeks. Into his collar. 

_Come on, hon. The cacti aren’t going anywhere. We should get back before it gets dark._

He turns to look at her. “Yeah, let’s—” 

His voice snuffs out in his throat. There’s just wet air. Rock. Mud. 

Right. _Right_. 

She’s dead.

He staggers over to a mossy boulder right off the path. Collapses down onto it. 

She’s dead. She’s dead. 

Shepard— _Ada_ —is dead.

A quiet, broken sob chokes out of him, and there’s the burning inside him. It’s getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger, and he’s going to get swallowed by it. Charred from the inside out.

It’ll kill him.

It _will._

Tears well up in his eyes. Another choked sob, but louder. Another. Another. Until he’s sobbing in earnest, curling into himself, the burning loss unfurling inside him. Stretching out into every corner of his body. Leaving nothing untouched.

If it wanted, it could take up this whole forest.

Ada’s dead. Ashley. Pressley. Ash. The Draven sisters. So many. Two dozen. Doesn’t even remember all their names. The Normandy’s chunks of metal on ice. Ada’s never going to hike again. 

Because she’s dead.

They’re all dead.

And he’s still here.

Kaidan heaves and sobs on that boulder for a long time, breathing nothing but strangled, desperate gasps. Throat raw. He stares at the muddy roots of the trees through wet vision. At least the trees don’t give a crap about him crying. And the muddy ground’s solid under his shaky feet. Won’t break open into the dark like the Normandy did. Won’t break, even if it feels like he will.

Here, he’s as loud, as ugly, as hurt as he needs to be.

Thread. Unravelled.


	3. Blue and Permanent

Kaidan’s been awake since 03:40 in the morning. He’s on his second cup of coffee, but it’s not helping. Still feels like he went overboard on ryncol last night, head fuzzy and full. He’s slumped at the kitchen table in the cold, blue light of the morning. His omni says:

_Tuesday, April 11th. 05:46._

He’s stared at it for an hour. Edkins said today was going to be hard. That he doesn’t have to do anything special if he doesn’t feel up to it. That whatever feels right is fine. 

Yeah. _Sure_. He doubts she’d approve of the only idea he’s been able to come up with: knocking himself out with a stupid amount of beer or whiskey or something.

At 06:00, his omni beeps.

_Don’t forget Ada’s gift + confirm reservations for 8pm._

He starts, elbow just missing his coffee mug off the table. Shuts his omni down fast, pressing his knuckles into his clammy forehead. The otter keychain which, yeah, he’d forgotten about. It’s hidden at the bottom of his desk drawer. Still in that polka-dotted wrapping paper. Still waiting to be opened by someone who—who won’t open anything ever again. 

He pours the rest of his coffee down the drain and drags himself to his room. He just needs to check. Make sure it’s still there. And then he can go ahead with that plan of drinking himself into a coma. His hands dig through the drawer, moving through half-repaired datapads and old files until he touches something that crinkles. 

_There._

Kaidan takes it out. Drops down onto the bed. He gingerly runs his hands over the edges of the wrapped, rectangular box. Ada would’ve loved this. That was the idea, at least. It would’ve been during dessert at the restaurant: he can see the dip of her collarbone in a velvet-dark dress; a speck of cream at the edge of her mouth. He’d get the gift out of his bag—“ _You didn’t have to, Kaidan_ ”—but she’d say it with so much softness. And then she’d open it, and she’d see the enamelled brown eyes of the otter, and the whiskers, and she’d break into one of those bright, warm grins of hers. Her eyes crinkled at the edges. 

That’s never happening.

His nails dig into the paper. God, it was stupid of him to buy this. To assume that she’d still be around to open it. That burning, twisting pain from the forest claws into his chest. 

He shuts his eyes for a second. _Damn it._ He doesn’t want to deal with today. He doesn’t want to deal with any of this, but he can’t stop— 

She’ll never reach thirty. 

Never need a birthday present again. 

Never go back to the aquarium and see Pip.

Never do anything, ever, because she got spaced and choked to death. Alone.

His implant heats up against the back of his head, fingers sparking blue. He wants to throw the box against the wall, let the wrapping paper crumple and tear, let the enamel crack into pieces—

 _No._ He wrestles the urge to throw it back down into his stomach. The blue on his skin snuffs out. He gets to his feet, stuffing the box far, far back into the drawer. Shoulders trembling. 

What a terrible idea. 

He abandons his room and shuts the door. No more checking. No more _remembering,_ because god, he _can’t_ do that hike again. Doesn’t have it in him to look at it like that. Not today of all days.

His omni says: 06:17.

Well. Crap. The hell is he supposed to do for the next, what, fifteen hours? Scattered thoughts of calling Caleb or Liv flit by. Or driving up to see his parents. Or going to a bar and getting blackout drunk there. Something.

He shoves his feet into his boots and gets on a windbreaker. He figured out his plan for the day: _anything that’s not in here._

The door stares at him, locked, and he can’t—do it. Open it. His hands hang limp at his sides. Feet rooted to the spot. His attention’s tugged towards the window, where the street below is clogged with rush-hour traffic. Crowds of small, ant-like figures hurry to their jobs. Grab coffee on the corner. Talk about the sudden turn of the weather. A bunch of people who don’t give a damn that it’s Ada’s birthday, that they had plans for today, that she’s dead. 

They’re all forgetting.

The otter keychain burns in the dark of his desk drawer. With a resigned sigh, he heads straight back to his room. The paper’s dented from before, but it’s still okay. 

Alright. Even if everyone else is moving on, he’s not gonna be the one to forget. He won’t leave or get blackout drunk. He’ll _do_ something. He goes back to the kitchen, gently places the gift on the centre of the counter and taps his fingers on the granite.

06:33.

It’d be ridiculous to cook dinner at six in the morning, right? There’s no way that’s not a weird thing to do. Functional, normal people don’t cook meals for their dead girlfriends before the sun’s up. 

He snorts to himself halfheartedly. Yeah. It’s not like he’s been normal _or_ functional for a while. 

Rooting through his cupboards and fridge, it’s just like he thought. He’s missing pretty much everything. 

Looks like he’ll have to go out after all.

Keys, credit chit, the gnawing in his stomach. Okay. He’s got everything. It’s a five-minute walk to the closest corner store, and they should have most of the ingredients. If they don’t, he’ll have to brave the morning traffic. Fingers crossed it doesn’t come to that.

The corner store’s quiet at this hour, thank _god_. He heads inside, nodding at the sleepy cashier. It’s early in the week, so the peppers should be fresh. Easy in. Easy out. He skips the tea section, like always. Milk, flour, eggs. His mouth’s dry at the check-out. He glances at the exit. Once. Twice. Pays. Heads out, bag in hand, heart in his temples. 

Back in the apartment, and he survived the store without too much trouble. Without ruining his day. The soft, citrus-orange dawn bathes his countertops as he unpacks the groceries. So he’s actually doing it. He’s going make her favorite dinner dish at seven in the morning, and it won’t be weird. It’s not like anyone’s going to see him cook it.

Kaidan’s halfway through slicing the bellpeppers when his mind drifts to Ada’s parents. If today is tough for him, he can’t even _begin_ to imagine what Hannah or Nathan must be going through. This dish—Ada told him once, why it’s her favorite. Nathan used to make it for her every Saturday like clockwork, because as a kid, he’d make it for his little brothers every weekend. Comfort food passed down. And now, well… Now, Nathan’s lost his kid. Hannah, too. They have to handle the idea that their _daughter_ —someone they spent the past 29 years raising—is never going to have a birthday again...Yeah. The idea’s unbearable. He doesn’t know how they’re even—

The knife slips against a tough edge of the pepper, two millimeters away from cutting into the top of his thumb. _Yikes. Concentrate._ Kaidan hones in on the feeling of the knife slicing through the skin of the pepper. The way the handle digs into his palm. The steady sound of the simmering water.

When the peppers are busy roasting in the oven, he starts to make the pasta. He’d usually just go for store-bought, but Ada always liked making it fresh. Flour on her hands, the scent of her apple bodywash. The way she smiled at him and told him to focus on rolling his sheet of dough. 

His heart aches. A tender bruise.

The pasta’s resting. He cooks up the pine nuts and onion in the pan. That’s what the recipe was, right? Two tablespoons of pine nuts and half an onion. Or maybe it was a full onion. Kaidan only made this the one time with her. A frown creeps onto his face. Damn it. If he gets this wrong, there’s no way to ask her how— 

_Watch it. You’re burning ‘em, Alenko._

He blinks, looking towards the stove. Right. He lifts the pan off the heat. Glances over to the breakfast bar, where he half-expects her to be sitting there, an eyebrow raised and lips curved into a half-smile. 

She isn’t. 

Kaidan’s leaning heavy on the counter. The pasta’s almost done. The peppers and pine nuts are processed into a summery orange. He’s chopped up the parsley. Everything’s in order, but he can’t feel the tips of his fingers. The tender bruising in his chest is spreading deep into his back. Hurts so bad his vision’s watery. 

_The pasta, Kay. Unless you’re a fan of mush, you’d better get to straining it._

The steam fills the kitchen for a second. He almost feels her fingers brushing against his shoulder—he turns to look, and of course, it’s just him. 

It’s always just him.

09:12.

He sets the table and pulls up a chair for her. It’s symbolic, obviously, but he’d be lying if some part of him isn’t hoping that he’ll look up at it and she’ll be sitting there. He places the gift on the table in front of him. Lights a candle. Takes a deep, shaky breath, sits down, and serves himself a plate. 

He scoops a forkful of the bright-orange pasta and nods towards the empty chair.

“Happy birthday, Ada.”

* * *

Two birthdays the same week. Ash and Ada joked about that. Some early morning in the armory, he was cleaning his pistol and they walked in. Chatting loud and bright. Said they’d have to put ‘em together and throw the most kickass party the galaxy had ever seen.

Yeah. Things didn't go to plan.

Kaidan's down by the ocean. Parked himself on a bench. The promenade’s quiet, a few runners here and there; a man walking with a gray-muzzled golden retriever. It’s sunny out, the light reflecting off the lapping water. Warm enough to get by with a light jacket. 

He takes another bite of the coffee cake he made this morning. Ashley said she loved the stuff, cinnamon and nuts crumbled on top. 

_Ash_. 

He breathes out slow. 

_I wish she were still here._

Birds chirp and flit from blooming tree to tree in the grassy park behind him. The cake’s getting harder to swallow. If Virmire had gone differently, if the Normandy never went down—where would they be right now? Out in geth space? Kaidan can almost see it: they’re all still in the armory. The low light tinges everything with a fuzzy blue. Ash is there, playing cards with Wrex, Garrus, Ada and him. She’s talking about the Reapers, pissed off. Contraband beer in her hands. Kaidan chuckles at one of her dry jokes. They’re moving closer to figuring out how to finish the Reapers off, but they also have time. Time to play poker. Drink warm beer. Go to a kickass birthday party. 

Time to be friends.

Kaidan clenches his jaw. That future’s gone. It fell out from under them the second they stepped on Virmire’s wet sand. The second that beam cut through the Normandy’s hull. Out of the A-team, he’s the only one left. For some reason.

And what a crappy job he’s doing.

The water laps on the rocks. Salt hangs in the air. The sun’s warm on his cheeks. He stares at his half-eaten coffee cake through blurry vision.

_I’m sorry, Ash. Happy birthday._

* * *

The bar’s crowded tonight. Bodies are cramped against the mahogany counters, and the windows are fogged up. Kaidan’s tucked in the leather booth, picking at the bowl of peanuts.

“Oh, there she is. You get everything?” Caleb’s sing-song voice. Right next to him.

“Yeah.” Olivia slides a colorful drink over to Caleb and hands Kaidan his beer—not another IPA, though, thank god—while slipping into her spot. “Hope these last. It’s a damn zoo up there.”

“Thanks.”

Liv clears her throat and raises her glass. Oh. Oh, _no,_ she’d better not be about to— 

“To Kaidan. On getting reinstated!” 

The bottle’s cold in his hands as he clinks his drink with theirs. The beer’s sour as he swallows a big gulp. Tries to give his friends a convincing smile. He’s supposed to be excited—Edkins cleared him yesterday. There’s not gonna be any more long, empty weeks of takeout and dead silence. No more trying to hide his shaky hands in front of Edkins’ levelled gaze. No more questions about his eating habits or if the grounding’s working or if he’s filled out that worksheet she gave him. No more picking and tugging at that thread inside him. He knows she had the best of intentions, but—yeah. Too much to unpack in six sessions. Too much he couldn’t let himself look at it, not if he wanted to stay functional. So. He got through the six sessions, and he didn’t die. And now… 

He can finally keep doing the work Ada, Ash, and everyone else on the Normandy died for. 

That _has_ to be a good thing.

“So, you gotten any word on your assignment yet?”

He traces his thumb on the beer label. He watches a group of people in Canucks jerseys snap a picture together. Did he miss another game? He must’ve. 

Liv nudges his shoulder. “Earth to Kaidan?”

“Hm? Oh, no, nothing yet. I doubt the paperwork’s even processed. You know how it is.”

Caleb take a long sip of his drink. “Yeah. Bureaucracy’s a bitch. No matter what you get, though, I’m sure you’ll do great.”

Mm. He’s not so sure about that part.

“Yeah. I’ll let you guys know how it goes. You’re getting shipped off soon, too, right?” 

As Liv launches into an answer, he glances towards the green glow of the exit sign. This beer isn’t sitting well with him. None of this is. Going back to work—it’s supposed to be a good thing. No. It _is_. But he’s been on edge ever since he walked out of Edkins’ office. The thought of boarding another ship—one without _Normandy SR-1_ engraved on its side—is tough to swallow. Tough to even wrap his head around. Still. It’s the thing to do, isn’t it? He has to go back sometime. Ready or not.

He doesn’t finish his beer. Bounces his leg. Picks at a clasp on his jacket under the table. Tries not to think about that last order, or the last couple months, or if he can even handle this at all. 

Fails.

* * *

They assign Kaidan to the SSV _Danton_ a couple days later. A standard cruiser, a standard mission in the Terminus. Fighting pirates, slavers, pockets of geth. Nothing too high-intensity. Nothing like Saren. 

He shoves down the part of him that wants it to _be_ like Saren.

He’s standing on the docks at HQ. Staring at the ship with his duffel bag grasped in a fist. He’s had a stomach ache for three days straight. Liv, Caleb, his parents—they’re all so happy for him. 

_Happy you’ll stop being such a damn drag to be around, maybe._

Kaidan clenches the nylon handles of the bag tighter. No. They just want the best for him. The best right now is this. The _Danton._ A job. The ship hisses, the name on the side chipped. Sure is a hell of a lot smaller than the Normandy. Maybe that’s a good thing. Less surface area to get hit. Broken apart, charred and— 

His omni beeps, breaking that thought in two. 

It’s time.

A deep, wavering breath. In, hold, out. It’ll be fine. It’ll be _fine._

And then he’s standing in the ship’s briefing room with twelve other recruits.

Kaidan blinks, looking around. The room’s blocky and cramped. One door. Smells like ozone and a hint of something bitter he can’t place. Or maybe that’s his imagination. Next to him, the other crewmembers stand quiet. Nervous, probably. He sure is. Another glance at the exit.

Wait. Wait. Did he forget to turn his stove off? No. He checked twice. Although with his luck, he might come back to a building in ashes, and the keychain can’t survive a housefire—

Another breath. The redirection thing he’s been practicing: _five cloves of garlic. Half a pound of button mushrooms. Six sprigs of thyme._ Whatever attacked the Normandy is still out there. It might come back for more. The _Danton_ ’s armor is paper-thin, so it’d go down even quicker. 

Would he make it out a second time?

He swallows. That exit’s looking better and better by the second. _Two cups of—what was it? Broth. Beef broth. A cup and a half of red wine._

The door slides open, and he reins in the urge to step back. For a split-second he expects Ada to walk in, datapad in hand, shoulders tall. Ready to get back to work.

It’s not. Of course. It’s their new CO: Commander Torres. His eyes sting when he salutes her.

“At ease. I’ll be your commanding officer for the duration of this mission. We’re a small crew, so I expect everyone to follow regs and keep it friendly. You have any issues, you come to me first. Now, I assume everyone’s read the briefing?”

A nod. Torres has freckles peppered across her nose. He tries hard to ignore the way that’s making him want to start walking and not stop until he’s away from this. From her.

He can’t leave. This isn’t a betrayal. Ada would want him to keep serving. _Do I really know what she’d want? Do I really—_ he inhales slow, and then slower. _Focus._ Torres is running down the mission.

The ship hums and jolts a little as they take off, and his ears go stuffy. _It’ll be fine._ He clasps his hands behind his back until his knuckles go white, trying to hide the edge of tremble.

_We’re not going to get blown up. We’re not going to get blown up. A large onion. There isn’t a body. Four medium carrots. A pound of potatoes. She suffocated to death. Six tablespoons of butter. The thing that cut through the Normandy is still out there. Waiting._

The briefing’s over. They’re gonna hit a geth base in twelve hours. 

Kaidan pushes into his aching knuckles as he follows the others to their quarters. A glance around the corner. No familiar faces, no warm voices he knows in the mess. No familiar layout. Nothing he knows. 

_This isn’t a betrayal._

He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to convince himself of that.

* * *

Kaidan’s unpacking his bag in the crew quarters—cramped as ever—when a mass of blue approaches him in the corner of his eye. He tenses up, gripping the shirt in his hand into wrinkles.

“Hey.” 

Kaidan turns, stiff, and is faced with a lean, olive-skinned guy with a buzzcut. “Uh. Hey.”

“Just wanted to introduce myself properly. I’m your bunkmate, Dagher. Hope this isn’t too forward, but you’re Alenko, aren’t you?” 

At the mention of his name, the conversations around them lull, and heat creeps up his neckline.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s me. Good to meet you, Dagher.”

He takes in the recruit. A recruit who, he’s now realizing, is young. A lot younger than he is, at least. Dagher shrinks his shoulders into his uniform at the full brunt of Kaidan’s gaze. 

But he doesn’t stop.

“You served on the Normandy, right?”

The thread running through his chest tugs hard. Kaidan narrows his eyes at the kid. _Easy. This was going to happen sooner or later._ “Yes. That’s right.”

All eyes are on him. He clasps his hands behind his back again. Dagher’s eyes are bright. Too bright. Like Jenkins’ were.

“You served with Commander Shepard, then? For real?”

Nails into the side of his hand.

A bleached-haired woman with a deep scar running through her eyebrow steps forward and puts a hand on Dagher’s shoulder. “You might want to back off with the questions, yeah? Could be a touchy subject.”

Dagher’s gaze widens and he takes a step back. “Oh, shit, you’re right—sorry. Thanks, Morton.” 

Kaidan goes for an appeasing smile. “It’s fine, Dagher, but I’m leaving it behind me. Alright?”

Dagher nods and backs off to his locker. Kaidan gives Morton a small nod, the bruised part of him so relieved he kind of wants to cry. A few glances from the other crewmembers but no one pushes it. 

He’s safe. Fine.

Turning back to his bag. The conversations pick up around him. He folds a shirt into his locker, doing his damndest to shove away the ache in his chest. 

_A fourth cup of flour. A pound of stewing meat. Two cups of beef broth. Six sprigs of thyme._

* * *

The first time the _Danton_ docks on the Citadel, Kaidan almost doesn’t come back. He heads out of the ship early, way before anyone else—he’ll find breakfast somewhere in the wards. He just needs out. To breathe air that isn’t recycled. Well. Not _as_ recycled, at least.

He ends up in the Presidium. Grabs a coffee and a croissant at that place Ash recommended. Leans on the metal railing overlooking the fountain. The place is quiet today. Most of the damage repair is done on this side, so there’s no jackhammers. Just the steady stream of the water. The distant murmur of people. The blue sky’s nice. Reminds him of home on a good day. 

His heart tugs. Home. Yeah. A week into this new assignment and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss it. Nothing wrong with the _Danton_ , really, but it’s still a cramped ship. Still a thing that could get blown up any second. Everyone’s weird around him, too. Nobody’s said anything, sure, but he can _tell_ —they’re walking on eggshells.

He takes another sip of his coffee. Last sip, it turns out. He stares at the empty cup, the last beige dregs collected at the bottom. 

The tendrils of the nightmare he had grasp at him. Dark blood splattered all over the walls. An empty escape shuttle. 

It pulls at him. All of it. 

He shuts his eyes for a second. He _could_ leave. It’d be easy. One email to Anderson, a shuttle, a handful of credits. He wouldn’t have to go back to the ozone-thick air of the _Danton._ There’d be no more shakiness every time the ship bumps. He wouldn’t have to tolerate the side-eyes, the hushed whispers. Or the way looking at Torres makes him nauseous. He’d be back in his apartment. Away from all this.

_Would that really be any better?_

At the entrance to the _Danton,_ Kaidan looks back one more time. He could still leave. It’ll be two or three weeks out in deep space. Trapped in the ship. Stuck. No way out if he loses it. 

He heads through the door anyway.

* * *

A few weeks in and he still can’t sleep. Not that he slept that great groundside either, but it wasn’t _this_ bad. He thought it’d get better after that first week. It hasn’t. He pushes his head deeper into the cardboard-flat pillow. Morton’s snoring. The _Danton_ hums. Two hours until breakfast. 

Yeah. There’s no way he’s getting any more shut-eye. Kaidan drags himself out of bed, stuffs his feet into his shoes, and carefully makes his way out of the quarters. 

He stops cold in the hallway. What’s his gameplan? Towards the mess? No. Night shift will be there right about now. 

He ends up in the belly of engineering, sitting on an abandoned toolbox. The drivecore’s constant thrum reminds him of the Normandy, and he can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. To stop himself from going too deep into _that_ , he switches on his omni. His fingers automatically type in the news.

 _Bad_ idea. It’s always a bad idea, but that’s never stopped him before. Another official statement by the Alliance discounting the Reaper threat. Saying it’s fiction, fear-mongering, nothing but a baseless rumor. God, of course they’re saying that. They don’t want to face it. The galaxy’s moving on. 

He’s supposed to be, too.

Kaidan shuts off his omni and leans back on the crate, closing his eyes. The shadow of a headache bears down on his skull. The thrum of the drivecore isn’t exactly helping. At least it’s better than Morton’s snoring. Maybe. What did Tali always say? Something about silence and the drivecore. Something—shit. How’s Tali doing? How’s _anyone_ doing?

Before he can stop himself, his face is lit up by the glow of his omni again. First: Liara. There’s nothing. No news stories, no published papers, no comments to the press. After the funeral, she just _vanished._

A big, heavy sigh escapes him. He’s not sure what he expected, but Ada really liked Liara. He did, too. She was so sweet—he just hopes she’s doing okay. Hopes she’s just stuck on some Prothean dig with no extranet connection. Next up is Garrus, and there’s even less of him. He isn’t back with C-Sec. He’s not with the Council and there’s not a thing about him on Palaven. The rotten taste of old coffee spreads to the back of Kaidan’s throat. Did _everyone_ go off the grid after the Normandy went down? He never wanted—to lose them. They felt—well. They were starting to feel like home. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek. Anderson mentioned that Joker got grounded, too, so he’s not out there piloting another ship. There’s nothing on Wrex or Adams, either. All of them ghosts. 

Not that he’s doing much better. Stuck on a no-name ship clearing no-name bases. 

Kaidan slumps into himself, leaning his elbows on his thighs. It’s selfish of him, maybe, but some part of him is a little relieved that the rest of the crew isn’t out there doing great, ambitious things like he’d imagined. Maybe they’re still hurting, too, and he isn’t the only still caught in this.

Ada probably would’ve hated all this, though. Hated that he wasn’t calling. She was all _don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone_ and _watch each other’s backs, got it?_ And now, well, they’re clearly not shining examples of teamwork, that’s for sure. He stares at his omni. He really _could_ call any one of them. Get coffee next time they refuel. Check in. It’d be better than the crew on the _Danton—_ he could have a real conversation with them, or play poker, or go to a bar. He wouldn’t feel so awkward, and if he got lucky, it’d be somewhat _normal._

The pressing headache crawls behind his eyes and sits heavy. _Ghosts, all of them._

Yeah. No. That’s not happening.

* * *

It’s another base on a boiling hot planet. They’ve had a streak of high-temp planets lately which aren’t exactly Kaidan’s favorites, but it’s tolerable as long as he keeps his head focused on the mission. This one’s no different. Slavers hiding out, blurs of green-burnt armor, and varren snarling in flickering light.

Morton’s got his six. Torres is ruthlessly methodical. They’ve gotten deep into the base. One last room to clear. Then they can get out of this damn oven, he can take a nice cold shower and pass out. 

The door clicks open. The three remaining mercs are down in less than thirty seconds—a timed throw from Kaidan, one of Morton’s blast grenades, a shot from Torres and they’re dead. Easy. 

“Alright. Looks clear. Search for the datapad with the shipping report on it, and then we’ll get out of here.”

Kaidan holsters his gun. He rifles through one of the gray lockers, arms heavy from the damned heat. 

“You’d think these idiots would stop hiding out in fucking volcanoes, but here we are, huh?” Morton grumbles as she sweeps her omni over a locker. Kaidan tries not to think about the way Ash said pretty much the same thing on Therum. 

_Keep your head here. Here and now, Alenko._

“Found something, you two. Here, come take a—”

The hiss of a door. A heavy _thud._ A cut-off yell. The cracking of plastic.

“Shit! Cover!”

Kaidan’s already hunkered behind a crate by the time Morton’s done with her sentence, his heart pounding in his gums. How’d they miss— 

Coming straight from Torres’ position: a sound like a dog’s throat is getting stepped on. 

“Commander!” Kaidan lurches out of cover— _need to make sure she’s okay, need to—_ but a krogan’s hurtling straight towards him.

The gasps are backed by crackling static.

A blast of red and white. Smoke. The krogan reels back. Morton: “Alenko! Now!”

He's frozen for a second until instinct kicks in. His implant buzzes at the back of his neck, muscles jerking into action. A glowing elbow wrenched back, he's leaning forward, the smell of bitter ozone—and he launches a hard-hitting throw right into the krogan’s chest. The krogan roars. Off-balance. Kaidan’s eyes stay stuck on the locker his CO is collapsed next to.

On comms: garbled, frantic wheezing. 

Morton shoots at the krogan. The sound of shields hissing. The splatter of blood. 

Kaidan’s not looking. He _needs_ to make sure. Needs to stop the gasping.

There’s broken glass and bits of plastic on the floor. A body crumpled into a heap. 

_No._

Kaidan kneels down next to her, hands trembling over the damage. Medi-gel and the gasping is sounding more like choking. Choking and dead and _dying—_

He switches sides so he can see her face. Brown eyes meet his. Brown. Not blue. Brown. 

Torres. Not Ada. 

Right.

Her helmet’s smashed in. Shards of glass are dug into her forehead, and her nose trickles blood into her mouth. From the scans he’s running, she’s not dying. Just got the breath knocked out of her. A few teeth too, maybe.

He exhales a shaky, shaky breath. “You’ll be—you’ll be fine, Commander. We’ll patch you up on the ship. Alright?” 

She gives him a tight nod, lips thin. Her breathing’s coming a little easier. 

Morton next to him. “Krogan’s down. You’re welcome. She okay?”

Her breathing. She _is_ okay, right? By the way her chest is moving, yeah, but he can still hear— 

Morton knocks her armoured shoulder with his. “Alenko?”

“What? Oh. Yeah. There's a chance she's concussed, but I think she's probably alright. The doc should take a look at her when we’re back, though.”

They get Torres on her feet. Morton grabs the shipping report. On the way out of the base, Torres is breathing right by Kaidan’s ear. Labored and wheezy. 

He lost feeling in his fingers a few minutes ago.

On the shuttle. Torres is grumbling something at Morton. Kaidan stares at the floor. Tries to press feeling back into his cold, numb fingers. He can still hear the echoes of the helmet cracking; of the high-pitched choke.

He’s in the mess. Torres must be in the medbay. Damn it. It wasn’t even a close call, but he feels _awful_. He’s gripping his fork until the metal digs into his hand when someone bumps their knee into his.

Dagher: “Hey, Alenko? You gonna eat your rice pudding?”

He blinks up at his squadmate. When did Dagher get here? “Oh. No. All yours.” 

God. He should just go to bed. He’s not in any shape to be around people right now.

The harsh, grating sound of a spoon scraping against plastic. “Ugh. It tastes like shit. Thought maybe mine was bad, but no. It’s just _like_ this. I bet the food on the Normandy was better.”

At the mention of the Normandy, the thread that started to go loose inside that base tugs. And tugs. And doesn’t stop. Kaidan’s thighs tense to push the chair back. Get the hell out of here.

Morton glares at Dagher. “Didn’t he say to leave that alone? God, kid, you’ve got a big mouth.”

Kaidan’s thighs stay tense, but he doesn’t get up. There’s a pressure that’s pushing him down into his chair. How many times has Morton told Dagher to shut up about the Normandy? 

Torres could’ve died. 

Ada _did_ die. Choking and gasping and burning up in dark space. 

And no one here knows crap about her. Because he hasn’t _said_ anything. He’s shut up and stayed quiet and let them just—forget. Let himself forget. 

What kind of an A-team member is he, anyway?

“No. It’s fine.” Kaidan’s mouth moves without his input. Wait, what the hell is he doing? “The food was pretty bad on the Normandy. The only times it was any good was when Shepard cooked.”

“Wow. She cooked?” Dagher says, mouth turning up out into a big grin. The blue of his uniform and the earnestness in the crinkle around his mouth keep Kaidan from walking out of the room and never coming back. Dagher cares. Cares a lot, right now, here. About the Normandy. Ada. 

He cracks a knuckle under the table. Palms sweaty. “She, uh. Yeah. She did. Well, we did. Together. Special occasions, mostly. She was _damn_ good at it. Learned from her father.”

“I had no idea. All I’ve ever seen are the vids. So what was she like?”

_The mint tea in the middle of the night. Her soft smile. Her low humming as she does the dishes. Lemon-soap and ozone._

The thin, glassy edge of the memory cuts into him. He crosses his arms and hopes to god the stinging behind his eyes doesn’t turn into full-on crying.

“Well, she was nice. Friendlier than you’d think. So friendly it spooked me at first.” 

“Damn, that’s cool. I always thought she’d be a hardass.”

“Don’t get me wrong. She could kick your ass in less than a second if you pissed her off. But she was easy to talk to. Even got Wrex—our local krogan—to crack up once.” 

“What a fucking shame what happened.”

_Yeah. That’s putting it lightly._

Kaidan clears his throat of the thickness. “Yeah. I like to believe she’d be proud that we’re still out here. Doing all this.” 

“You think so?”

“I do.” 

Pressure behind his eyes or not, numbness in his fingers or not, for that minute, he believes that. He believes that Ada _would_ be proud of him. For that minute, she’s not just living inside his head anymore. The Normandy’s not. A part of her and everyone else is alive here, on the _Danton,_ in Dagher’s smile. In Morton’s steady, unwavering gaze _._

That has to count for something.


	4. What Outlasts Itself

The _Danton_ hurtles from system to system, and Kaidan lapses into something of a routine.

He’ll wake up with a sour taste in his mouth. Roll out of bed. Ease some of the clammy shakiness in the heat of the shower. Eat whatever mush is in the mess that morning. Quietly listen to Dagher’s steady stream of talking. Briefing. Listing ingredients in his head. He’ll tweak his omni on the shuttle down. 

Then there’s a base, a hostage, a slaver raid. There’s that choked gasping on comms sometimes—that’s stopped surprising him. Sure as hell hasn’t stopped the slick roll of nausea, but there isn’t much he can do about it. 

Getting back to the ship. Clicking off armor and pressing his fingers into that sore spot on his temple. Checking the news. Checking reports for any sightings of yellow-beam ships. Food. Conversation. Morton and Dagher laughing a little too hard—if it’s a good day, he joins in. If it’s not, he stares at his tray. Citrus dish-soap and the dry, cracking skin on his knuckles. Heaving his tired, aching body into bed, tossing and turning, slipping into fractured sleep. Snapping awake with his heart in his throat. 

And rolling out bed. And easing some of the clammy shakiness in the shower. Eating mush in the mess, briefing, shuttle. 

It’s all the same to him. The crew’s nice enough. They’re good soldiers. Missions are straightforward. Days are methodical. The same. Same is simple. Same is safe. Safe enough, anyway.

Well, no. It’s not _always_ the same. The crew on the _Danton_ were pretty insistent that he go out on shore leave with them from time to time, and Kaidan did his best to humor them. Might as well stay on the good side of the people he shared bunks with, right? 

One time—the last time he accepted their invite—there was a woman in the rebuilt _Flux._ She was perched on a stool next to him, and asked the bartender for a glass of asari honey-mead, intricate bracelet clinking on her wrist. Kaidan was busy trying to swallow down the cloyingly sweet drink he’d ordered without thinking. 

Then she said something. Said something again. Kaidan finally turned. Her dress was all sparkle, pretty hand way too close to his forearm on the bar. He was trying to figure out how to let her know he wasn’t all that interested when she leaned in a little closer. 

That’s when it hit him: apple-jasmine perfume.

The person in front of him disappeared.

Ada’s collarbone dipping into a dress. Strands of honey-brown hair stuck to her neck. The bright curve of her smile every time she got a belly-laugh out of him. The freckles trailing up to her shoulder as she tugged him through the bustle of the market. 

He leaned way back from the warm, smiling woman in sparkles. Got up with a mumbled _sorry_. What was he supposed to do? Stay in that bar and break? At least his bunk was quiet. At least no one on the ship wore that brand of perfume. He skipped out on most of Dagher’s invites after that.

Months slip by, muffled. Short, clipped calls with his parents. He only sees Caleb and Liv once. The _Danton_ keeps chugging from system to system, base to base. They do good work. Stop bad things for happening. 

Not the Reapers, though. The threat of them looms. Kaidan tries asking Torres about them. That they should do something. But she just brushes him off with a scowl: _we have our mission, Alenko. We need to focus on it._ Everyone on the _Danton,_ the Citadel, at HQ brushes him off. Some are nicer about it than others, but it’s still the same thing: he can’t get through to them.

So base to base to base it is.

It’s a Monday morning. They’re somewhere deep in the Terminus. Kaidan’s dragged into the day by that bitter, fuzzy taste in his mouth. 

Omni says it’s time to get up. Lights flick on. Movement and voices and the thud of boots.

He tenses to roll out of bed.

Can’t.

Wait. No. He can. He’s still waking up, that’s all.

He tries to sit up. Kick the sheets off. Swing his legs over the side.

His muscles don’t respond. Heavy. Heavy like tar. His blood running slow, running like thick, coagulated oil. More lights on. Dagher’s groaning about the weather on whatever planet they’re headed to today.

Kaidan takes a deep breath. Even that’s work. 

He’s just tired. It’s not like he slept well last night. He’ll get some coffee in the mess and that’ll shake this off.

He tries to sit up. Again. 

No response from his body. Just more thudding, leaden heartbeats. More useless muscles. God, all he’s gotta do is sit up. Since when is that such a damn _task?_

Rough hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch this time.

Morton: “Hey. You alive?”

A second, two, three, as he swallows through the fuzzy thickness in his mouth. 

His voice is more of a whisper than anything else. “Yeah. Just tired. Be up in a second.”

The hand loosens. In the dim light, Morton’s frown looks more severe than usual.

“Alright. Just show up to the brief—heard Torres is in a bad mood today. Want me to save you some breakfast?”

He gives her half of a nod. 

Morton’s gone. Only him and a few other stragglers left. Every minute he lays here, the briefing gets closer. He’s supposed to be there. Has to be. 

Can’t slip up now. Not after months and months of doing so well.

_Just sit up. That’s it._

Kaidan takes a deep breath. Slowly, slowly, rolls onto his back. The thick, sludge-like oil inside him spreads deeper. Weighs heavier. Another breath. He just needs to sit up. The rest can wait. 

Another breath, another, he claws a hand into the sheets and he’s upright. His head throbs, his vision blurs for a second, but he’s sitting up. Coffee’s that much closer. He drags his deadweight legs over the side of the bunk, reaches for his socks on the floor, doesn’t let himself even think about crawling back into the covers. No matter how much his body’s begging him to.

In the shower. He feels sick to his stomach, dizzy, and that throbbing in his head isn’t letting up. He just wants to sit down on the tiles and never get back up. Ugh. He really woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. He hasn’t felt _this_ bad in a long time.

He stumbles out, stumbles through putting on his uniform. Checks his omni and—damn. He’s not gonna have time for coffee. 

The briefing barely even registers.

“Alenko! Watch it!”

He snaps into the room. Room. Base. He’s in a base. Vines eat at the walls. Water drips in through a crack in the roof. He’s hunkered down behind a rotted table. His omni’s hot with an overload and Miller’s glaring at him, shields sparking.

“Sorry. Missed.”

When the hell did he get here? Last thing he remembers was walking into the briefing room and Torres’ glare.

More shots. A varren in his face. Fingers clumsy on the trigger but he shoots the head in and what are they doing here again? The briefing was important and _god_ he just wants to go back to bed. He shouldn’t have gotten up in the first place.

Shuttle. Numbness spreading from his fingers up into his wrists. He stares at a scuff on the floor.

That slow, heavy sludge. Every time he stops he can feel it spread through him. Oily. Thick. Coagulated. 

It hurts. _He_ hurts. 

Dagher and him are in the mess, late. Kaidan’s finally got some coffee in his hands, but he doesn’t even want to drink it at this point. He’s considering tossing what’s left and just going to bed—getting the day over with already—when Dagher breaks the silence.

“Hey, Alenko? You good?”

“Yeah. Fine. Why?” 

The kid darts his eyes to the table. “Nothing, it’s just. Today must be hard, that’s all.”

“Today? What about it?”

“Well, you know. It’s the anniversary.” Dagher fidgets with the sleeve on his uniform. “Of when the Normandy went down. I just thought—I thought it might be hard, and I know Morton says I shouldn’t force you to...”

Dagher’s voice fades out.

Wait. It’s today?

Kaidan numbly checks the date on his omni. And yeah. There it is. Explains why he’s felt like shit all day. 

February 12th. 

It’s been a year.

The rest of his coffee’s splashed in the sink. He walks out of the mess. Away. Somewhere else. 

Wandering through the ship. A ship that’s blocky and cramped and all wrong. Downstairs to engineering and he’s picking at the scar tissue on his hand. The hum of the drivecore’s too loud, so he heads back upstairs. Back through the mess. Dagher’s gone. The center of Kaidan’s chest aches, the core of the heaviness he’s been fighting off right there. The _Danton’s_ wrong. Him being here is _wrong._ He should be fighting Reapers. He should be answering to Commander Shepard. He should be on the Normandy.

But it went down. That life’s gone. It’s been gone for a year.

Sitting down at the empty table, he sighs low. Maybe he should’ve done something special, like on Ada’s birthday. To remember them. Or called someone. Or lit a candle, or donated to a charity, or done— _something._ Instead, he just. Forgot.

In his bunk—wrong bunk, wrong make, wrong people—he curls up into himself, small and cold and heavy. All he wants is to go back in time. Stop it from happening. Switch places with her. Something. _Anything_.

Hours pass through him. The day ends. Somehow, he survives it.

Even if there’s some part of him that doesn’t really want to.

Slowly. Surely. Things fall back into place. The heavy tar recedes back to the edges. He can roll out of bed again; his muscles still heavy but back online. And he eases some of the clamminess in the heat of the shower. Eating mush in the mess, going to a briefing, tweaking his omni on the shuttle. A base, a raid, a hostage. 

Somewhere along the line, in the haze, they promote him for it: Commander Alenko. Say his record’s perfect. He’s doing excellent work. 

Kaidan doesn’t care. He knows he should. He just. He can’t. At the end of the day, the rank is not gonna change much. There’s still gonna be slavers and Reapers and geth. Watery coffee in the mess. The snarl of varren on lowlit moons. His armor pinching at his shoulder.

Doesn’t change a thing.

* * *

Kaidan doesn’t get why he let Liv and Caleb talk him in to this. The one time he’s on the Citadel and scrounges up enough willpower to meet up with them, they decide to spring _this_ on him. 

_Listen, you two are perfect for each other. You know I’d never do this if I thought it’d hurt you, Kaidan._

_We’re not asking you to marry the guy. Just go out for drinks for an hour. That’s it._

Kaidan grips the metal basin, staring at his reflection. Sunken dark circles. Hair that’s long overdue for a trim. Frown lines that have only gotten deeper. He’s tried to fix himself up with a blue button-up and his wool coat that’s a little too big. It’s the only coat he had with him. It’s the one Ada liked.

That tired, dull ache spreads through his chest. Kaidan lowers his eyes back towards the glint of the sink. It doesn’t really matter what Ada liked. She’s gone, and he’s moving on. He’s _trying_ to move on, so he’ll wear the jacket she liked so much, he’ll get the date over with, and then Caleb and Liv will get off his back about it. It’s an hour of his time. He can do an hour. He’s shipping off early tomorrow, anyway, so he doubts he’ll even see this guy—Elias, right?—again. He probably won’t even remember this whole thing in a month.

He messes with the collar on his shirt. Unbuttons and rebuttons a cuff. Paces from one side of the bathroom and back. It’s not a betrayal. It’s been a year and a half. He knows Ada wouldn’t want him to stay stuck on her. She’d level him with a stony glare, eyebrow quirked up, and a grumble out a low _come on, Kaidan, go and have fun. Don’t make me drag you out there._

The tired, dull ache turns blade-edge sharp. He shuts his eyes, trying to chase the afterimage of her out of his brain. He shouldn’t go _there_ right before a date. Whoever this Elias is, the least Kaidan can do is _try_ to be somewhat present.

 _You can survive an hour, Alenko. Then you can forget about it._ He sucks in a deep breath. Takes one last pointless look in the mirror. And he walks out.

* * *

Kaidan sits down at the table, tapping his fingers on the dark wood. The brewery Elias picked is nice—in a part of the Citadel Kaidan's never been to. The lights are shimmery gold, the music in the background soft, and the wooden table’s are pretty empty. Yeah. A brewery’s good. Probably means the guy likes beer, so at least they’ll have _something_ to talk about if all else fails.

His eyes drift over to the door again. The door that hasn’t opened for twenty whole minutes. He did get here too early—or maybe Elias bailed on him. Kaidan stares at the menu of IPAs, gaze flitting from section to section but he’s not absorbing anything. Maybe he should just leave. This was a bad idea anyway.

The door swings open right as his arms are tensing to reach for his coat, and in walks a tall guy in a leather jacket, his hair wavy and trimmed at the sides, olive skin warm in the gold lights. 

Elias?

He swallows, the nerves right under his skin getting worse. Liv didn’t tell him Elias was a goddamn _model_.

He’s at the table. Kaidan closes the menu and tries to breathe normally. He can do this—it’s just an hour. 

“Hey, I’m Elias. You must be Kaidan.” 

“Yeah. That’s me.” 

Elias smiles soft, and Kaidan’s thoughts stutter. Oh, god, he has _dimples_. Liv knew _exactly_ what she was doing.

Elias pulls out a chair and sits down. Kaidan catches the scent of peach and vanilla. “Good to finally meet you—Liv’s told me a lot about you. And I hope you like IPAs.” 

He keeps his gaze on the menu, trying not to stare. His stomach sparks hot every time he looks over at him. Green eyes, long, curled lashes—why the hell did Elias have to be so _pretty_ _?_ Might be just an hour but at this rate, he isn’t gonna make it through. 

“I do, yeah. It’s kind of a hobby of mine.”

Elias gives him another gentle smile. “Glad to hear it. I was worried I might’ve assumed too much. Any favorites?”

Their beers arrive as they talk. Lemon-zest. Nothing like the ones he tried before. Or the ones he showed Ada.

Ada. Yeah. 

The corners of his mouth draw down. He knows this is a good thing. Getting out there again. Seeing people. He’s allowed to have a life. Feel heat in his stomach. Be a person again.

But he can’t just lie to himself. There _is_ some part of him, deep inside, that’s wishing Ada were in Elias’ spot right now. That she’d found this bar. That she was the one laughing with a beer in her hand, eyes bright and glittering. 

Still. Even with that persistent ache in his chest, Kaidan has a good time. As the ice breaks little by little, the conversation flows easier. The beer probably helps, too. Turns out Elias is a doc on the Citadel. Been here ten whole years. He’s got a younger sister on Elysium. He likes IPA’s. Helping people. Painting. He’s quiet. Waits his turn for Kaidan to talk and never pushes on the Normandy stuff.

It hurts. 

And it also feels okay.

* * *

They walk out of the brewery, Elias pocketing his credit chit with a hum. The tangy citrus of the beer they tried out sits heavy on Kaidan’s tongue. He checks his omni. Blinks. Checks again. Wait. 

Is that right? 

They were in there for _four_ hours. That’s—wow. Didn’t feel like four hours at all.

He risks a glance over at Elias. Under the bright, blue-tinged neon lights of the Citadel, he looks even _better:_ all high cheekbones, trimmed eyebrows and a sharp nose. The green in his eyes stands out way more than it did in the dim lighting of the bar.

Kaidan keeps looking. Another flicker of heat curls up into his stomach and doesn’t die down. It’s the same warm, buzzing heat he felt that first time he and Ada had tea on the Normandy together. It’s the same thing. 

_Is this gonna end up with Elias dead, too?_

Kaidan drags his gaze off Elias’ face. Back to the tiled street. Maybe he should cut this off before it gets worse. It’s just one date. And he doesn’t need more worry in his life.

“So, you headed back out to the Traverse tomorrow, then?” Elias’ soft, honeyed voice tugs him out of his head. They pass by a bustling club, slowly but surely getting closer to the docks.

He keeps his eyes on their shoes. “Yeah. Can’t dodge duty forever.”

“I bet. Do you find all that moving around tough? I’ve lived on the Citadel forever. Ending up in a new system every week would drive me crazy.” 

Kaidan can feel his eyes on him. 

“Guess I’ve gotten used to it. I’ve never been good at sitting still, anyway.” 

_Is this alright?_

The edges of the docking bay come into view. He wasn’t expecting Elias to walk him back. He lives on the opposite side of the Citadel, right? Elias stops and turns towards Kaidan, and he can’t help but look at him now. He meets that unguarded, doe-eyed gaze of his. Loses his train of thought.

“I had fun tonight, Kaidan.”

His heart climbs into his throat at the velvet way Elias says his name.

_Can I really be okay with this?_

“Next time you refuel, I’d love to see you again. But no pressure. What do you think?”

“I, uh.” 

There’s that dull aching in Kaidan’s heart. The biting worry that this is all gonna go south. But there’s also a hazy trail of warmth seeping through him. And his cheeks are sore from all the smiling he’s been doing—when’s the last time he’s been able to say that? He shifts from foot to foot. He wants—what _does_ he want? It’d just be a second date. It’s not like he’d be committing to anything. And it’d be stupid to deny that he had fun. Actual, _real_ fun. It was easy. Easier than he thought it’d be. 

A deep, shaky breath.

“Yeah. I’d like that.” 

* * *

Kaidan slides the chopped garlic into the pan, oil sizzling. Nicer pan than he owns at home and turns out Elias never even uses it. Elias sits at the breakfast bar with a glass of dark beer in his hand.

“God, I wish I could cook,” Elias sighs out, voice blending with the soft piano track in the background. 

Kaidan chuckles, low. “You could, you know. I swear it’s not that hard. You just need practice.” 

“Mm, maybe. But watching you is more fun.”

Heat bleeds into Kaidan’s cheeks as he shakes his head. Goddamn. That honeyed, velvet voice _will_ be the death of him. He tries to focus on stirring the garlic and onion. On anything that’s not the nervous, thready heartbeat in his head.

Nothing has to happen. Nothing has to happen. It’s their, what, sixth? Yeah, it’s their sixth date, and the most he’s done is lace his fingers with Elias’ and put his arm around his shoulder. A brush of lips on the cheek once. Elias has been nothing but understanding. Said he’s wanting to take it slow, too. To quit worrying so much. 

Still. He’s at Elias’ place. Dinner and a movie. First time Kaidan went to Ada’s, they—

His hand grips the spatula a little tighter. God, no. He’s not going down _that_ road right now. Right here. It’ll be fine. He’ll take it slow. Nothing has to happen if he doesn’t want it to. 

He glances over at Elias, who’s sitting there, gaze focused on him. Long, soft fingers tracing the condensation on his glass of beer. More of that slow-moving heat in his stomach. The same pull, the same heat that’s in the background every time he’s around the guy. It was there at the bowling alley when he smiled soft at Kaidan’s big win, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. When they walked slow on the pier, hand in hand, gazing at the choppy ocean. When they went to the park and had that picnic, and Elias leaned back in the grass, the sun glancing off his dark hair.

_Maybe I want something to happen._

Kaidan’s sitting down at the dining table. Picking at sauteed salmon and buttery pasta. 

When Elias takes a bite, he hums low and long. Kaidan’s stomach clenches. “My _god_. This is divine. You sure you’re not a professional chef on the side?”

“I’m sure. I’m glad you like it. Wasn’t sure the pasta sauce would go with the salmon.”

Elias’ knee casually touches his as he reaches for the water pitcher. A jolt of electricity runs up Kaidan’s thigh right at the point of contact. 

He stares at Elias’ hand gripped strong on the pitcher’s handle. Maybe. Maybe he wants something to happen.

On the couch. A movie’s playing. He has no clue what Elias picked. Some detective thing? 

Elias’ body is an inch away from his. His shoulder near-touching Kaidan’s. It’s definitely gotten closer in the past—however long it’s been. Out of the corner of his eye, Elias’ lips glisten. They look so damn soft. 

Right at that second, Elias turns to look at him. “Hey, do you want any pop—?”

He stops. A tilt of his head. Quirk of his eyebrow.

“Something on your mind?”

Kaidan swallows, mouth a little dry. “You’re, uh. You’re kind of distracting. Can’t focus on the movie.”

“Oh? Guess I should be sorry about that, huh.”

An inch closer. The peach and vanilla cologne he wears fills Kaidan's nose, and his heart thuds hard in his chest. Eyes flicking to Elias’ mouth.

Elias slows down, stopping just short of touching. A gruff whisper: “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

A breath. A decision: _this is okay._

Kaidan’s hand trails up to Elias’ cheek. His skin’s smooth, but there’s a hint of stubble there too. 

“Yeah.”

A nod, a dimpled smile. And Elias’ lips meet his. Gentle as ever. Kaidan’s eyes flutter closed. 

His lips are as soft as they looked. 

Kaidan leans in to the kiss. His thumb brushes Elias’ cheekbone. His mouth tastes like caramel beer, and _god_ , he’s wanted to do this ever since Elias strolled tall into that bar. Elias’ lips move against his, slow. Mouth parting an inch. He’s dizzy. Heady. Warm blood pumps through him. Nerve-endings thrumming. Heartbeat kicking hard. Kaidan’s alive. Alive, here. A swipe of Elias’ tongue on his lower lip. His hand twines into Elias’ wavy hair. It’s soft like velvet. He wants to get _closer_ , and he _wants—_

_Hair burnt up in clumps, a blistered scalp_

Kaidan stiffens up.

Moving, searching lips on his. He shuts his eyes tighter, trying to focus on the warm feeling of Elias’ mouth, on the heat of the palm on his cheek. He breathes slow through his nose _._

_A neck twisted the wrong way_

Elias lets out a low hum. It reverberates in Kaidan’s throat. A throat that’s tightening. No. No. He just needs to stop thinking and _lean_ into— 

_Blood boiling behind eyes, lungs torn up, a bitten off tongue, a mangled purple hand under snow_

Back. Away. Fingers untangled from Elias’ hair; three feet of distance. Staring at the couch and his throat’s full of thick ice. Elias is dying and Ada’s dying and he can’t. He can’t. Can’t do this can’t kill her again can’t— 

Bathroom tiles. Running the tap with his hands under it. Cold water. Heart beating fast but in a bad way now, in a way that’s making him sick. The gasping, the snapshots of broken bodies forcing themselves in. A broken tape.

Shit. He thought he was _okay_. Still a little bruised, maybe, but fine. All these months.

Kaidan bites deep into the inside of his lip until the stinging gets too sharp. More water. Cold. Splashing it on his face. Wiping at his lips. Wanting to cry. Call a taxi and never come back. Cry some more. The rough towel rubs the skin of his face until it burns.

He thought he was over it.

The soap smells like bitter lemongrass and lavender. He does his damn best to center in on that instead. Sitting down on the edge of the ceramic tub, he digs his fingers into his forehead. 

He thought—god, he _thought_ he was fine.

Eventually—it’s been way too long, he knows that—he can stand up without getting too dizzy. Burning stomach ache’s still there, but at least he’s up. And he’s beaten back the image of the blistered scalp. At least for now. He stumbles towards the bathroom door. A deep breath: in, hold, out. Make the exhale longer than the inhale. Exhale, long.

And he walks out.

Elias is right there in the kitchen, perched on a stool at the bar. Casually scrolling through the news on his omni. His body’s in one piece. Whole. He looks up at Kaidan and his brows push together.

He walks up to him. Slumps down on a stool. Thoughts fuzzy.

Crap. Okay. What’s he supposed to say? How the hell is he supposed to explain what just happened without sounding like he’s losing it?

“Hey. Sorry about that. I kind of—I needed a minute.”

Elias’ face softens. Kaidan can’t look at him for too long. “You feeling okay?”

“I’m fine now. I just.” He lowers his head. “The Normandy stuff came up for a sec. I panicked. I know I haven’t told you much about it, but sometimes it’s still, well. Hard.”

“No need to apologize. It’s okay.” Elias gives him another one of those endlessly patient, kind smiles of his. “Is there any way I can help out here? Make it easier?”

Kaidan scowls, the fuzziness in his head getting worse. He can’t believe Elias is being so damn understanding.

“You still want to be with me? I mean, getting comfortable around anything physical could take a while. It’s, well, it’s alright if you don’t want to do this. I get it. No hard feelings.”

Elias clasps his hands in front of him, the lines on his forehead and around his mouth still relaxed. “Kaidan. I like being around you. I want to keep exploring this, so we can take it as slow as you need. I’m in no rush. Really. But I’m still in this. That okay with you?”

He stares at the man in front of him. With his messy hair and those kind, crinkled eyes. With his soft hands and even softer mouth. No freckles, no blue eyes, no arch in his eyebrow. He’s not Ada. He’s not dying or mangled, blistered, broken under snow. He’s here, gentle. Understanding. Easy.

“Yeah. It is.”

The gnawing in Kaidan’s stomach stays with him on the whole shuttle ride back home.


	5. Lost to the Water

It’s strange. He’s been to the Citadel countless times but he never thought of going to their Air and Space museum. Sovereign’s attack missed most of it, so it’s still in one piece. It was Elias who suggested it. Said he’d always come here as a kid, and he’d love to show Kaidan around. They’ll grab lunch after, too. 

The place is pretty quiet right now, the only people there him, Elias, and a few scattered families. Artificial sunlight filters through the enormous glass windows. Elias’ hand is warm and soft in his.

Kaidan stares at the intricate hull. Trying to figure out how they got this thing to fly. 

His brain refuses to cooperate. He keeps glancing at Elias out of the corner of his eye. That dull, nagging gnawing in his stomach. After that freak-out out at his place a few weeks ago, it’s still there. When things get quiet. Ada’s popping up in his dreams again. He’s struggling to focus on work, mind straying off to Elias dying, Elias choking, two twisted bodies instead of one trapped in Alchera’s ice.

Maybe he’s not ready for this after all. Another glance at Elias. His cheekbones shine in the light, and his brow is creased as he stares at the ship, mouth turned up into a half-smile—wonder. Wonder all over his face.

Maybe he’s not ready, but this also feels good. 

“Hey, Kaidan?” Elias steps in a little closer to him, squeezing his hand. Peach and clean linen. Right. He’s here right now. Might as well try to enjoy it.

Still staring at the belly of the ship. “Yeah?”

A pause. 

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

He turns to look at Elias fully now. All the wonder’s melted off his face, replaced with a serious, lined frown.

Oh. Oh, no. 

“This is about what happened at your place, isn’t it?”

God, he _knew_ this would happen. Elias isn’t an idiot. He can tell he's doubting himself, and he wants someone who can actually reciprocate, and he’s— 

“What? Oh, no, not really. I’m still fine with taking it slow. It’s, well. It’s more about the long distance. I’ve been wanting to say something for a while, but I just didn’t know how to bring it up.” 

Now it’s Kaidan’s turn to be confused. He tilts his head. The what?

Elias keeps talking. “I thought I’d handle it better. I thought I would. But.” His finger traces the back of Kaidan’s hand, slow. And his eyes are doe-soft. “It’s been getting harder. Maybe because you’re always in danger, I don’t know, but I want to figure something—”

His omni beeps, interrupting Elias. Kaidan sighs sharp, fingers reaching to shut if off, when he sees that it’s Liv calling. 

They talked a few hours ago. She wouldn’t call again unless—

Unless something happened. 

Letting go of Elias’ hand, he gives him an apologetic look. “I know this conversation’s important, but it’s Liv. I’ve gotta take this. Be right back.” 

He leaves Elias standing there, rushing through a side door and out into a quiet, carpeted hallway. “Liv? What is it?”

“Tell me you haven’t heard.”

Crap. _Crap._ He was right. This is bad news. Someone’s dead. Caleb. His dad. Car crash. Bullet to the gut. Gas leak.

“Heard what? I’m with Elias right now. What happened?” 

“ _S_ _hit_ , you’re still with Elias? Nevermind. It’s nothing. Call me when you get home, okay?”

His heart pounds. Images of shattered windshields, pools of blood, burned-out living rooms flood his brain, and he can’t—he needs to know. He needs to _know_. “Wait. Something happened, didn’t it? Just tell me. I won’t be able to think about anything else.”

“It’s not a big deal. Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Have fun with Elias, yeah?”

“Olivia. Tell me. You know I’ll do nothing but worry.”

The line goes dead silent. He's worried she hung up until she sighs. “Okay. Yeah. Better you hear it from me than some idiot on the news.”

He puts all his weight on the wall. Braces himself. 

Someone’s dead. Someone’s dead. Someone’s dead.

“There’s a rumor going around. There’s a rumor that…Well, it’s about Shepard. They’re saying she’s—”

Did she just say _Shepard_?

“Wait. What?”

“Yes. Shepard. Ada. Just—just listen.” Liv takes a deep breath. “There are reports she’s been sighted. Alive.”

He stops breathing. 

“Uh. What the _hell_ are you talking about? Sighted? She’s dead.” 

“I’ll send you the reports if I have to. The higher-ups are pretty sure she’s out there. Alive. I know this is hard, but I thought I’d be the one to tell you.”

His fingers go numb. She keeps saying that word— _alive_ —but it doesn’t make sense. Ada’s dead as dead can be. What the _fuck_ is going on?

“No one survives getting spaced. Not even her. Stop messing around, okay?” A rough laugh breaks out of him. This is a joke. Liv’s losing it or pranking him or something. Or maybe this whole thing is a dream, because the words she’s saying don’t make sense. Not in any world.

“Everyone’s saying it’s her. And it doesn’t stop there.”

“What?”

“She might be working for Cerberus.”

He shakes his head. What Liv just said doesn’t even sink in. She’s playing him. Or she fell for an extranet conspiracy theory. First Ada’s alive, now she’s Cerberus? Christ. She’s not even _trying_ to make this believable.

“Oh, come on. Drop the act already.”

“I’m not kidding. That’s what the report says. I get that this sounds insane, but I wouldn’t lie about something like this. You know that.” 

“Now you’re just being cruel. _Stop_ it. Seriously.”

“I’m not making this up! Trust me. Please. I have shore leave soon, okay? I’ll come see you and we’ll talk—” 

Kaidan cuts the call.

He brings a shaky hand to his temple. His head’s spinning. Reeling. What in the ever-living _hell_ was that? Liv’s not the type to do something like this, but. Maybe she’s always had a mean streak in her and he never noticed. Maybe he should call Caleb or something. Have him check up on her. Because this isn’t something she’d do.

_There’s a rumor she’s alive. With Cerberus._

_Alive._

His hands spark with blue. Shaking. 

No. 

No matter what rumors are going around, that’s not possible _._ The damage report from her suit was real. He was at her goddamn funeral _._ He heard her _suffocate to death_ on comms, for God’s sake—that can’t be _faked._ The whole Cerberus thing just makes it more obvious it’s not real. Yeah. Liv’s buying into a conspiracy theory or smear campaign. That’s it. 

_Plus. Ada would’ve told me._

He takes a slow breath of recycled air, trying to offset some of the dizziness. Okay. Okay. That was one of the weirdest phone calls he’s ever gotten, but he needs to get back to Elias. 

_Alive. Cerberus._

Waves of prickly, scalding heat wash over the skin of his arms. His knees start to buckle.

No. He has to hold it together. He needs to stay here. It’s just another conspiracy theory. Like all the other thousands on the extranet. There’s nothing to it. Another breath: in for a count of four, hold for seven, out for a count of eight. His legs are still weak. Doesn’t matter. In, hold, out. He needs to get back. Talk to Elias. Liv was messing with him. Nothing's changed. 

Nothing’s changed. Pushing himself off the wall, he floats out of the hallway, through the door, and back towards the sunny exhibit. Was it always so damn bright in here?

Elias’ tall figure is still standing by the asari ship. In, hold, out. Nothing’s changed. Just a conspiracy theory. He drifts up to him. What were they talking about?

Oh. Yeah. He was in the middle of getting broken up with. Or something.

_She might be alive._

Elias says something. It doesn’t get through.

“What?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if everything was fine with Liv, that’s all.”

“Oh. Yeah. It was just. Work.”

Elias stares at him for a long second. “Well, I was thinking—maybe we should talk about all this somewhere nicer. Lunch, maybe?” 

“Okay. Yeah. Lunch sounds good.” Kaidan tries for some kind of smile but his mouth doesn’t move right.

They head over towards the glass-doored exit. Then they’re sitting down at a gleaming white table in a cafe. Muffled chatter, the clink of forks against plates. 

“And what would you like, sir?”

Server. Waiting. What? What would he like? 

“A. A cappuccino. A cappuccino’s fine. Thanks.”

He stares at the salt-shaker on the table. Olivia was messing with him. Ada died. He _knows_ that. He heard it happen. He _felt_ it for two years. And the Cerberus thing isn’t real. All they’re trying to do is discredit her work. Again. It’s a stupid rumor. 

End of story.

“...want to get your thoughts on this. I really like you, but I don’t know how to make the whole long-distance thing work. Even though I want to.”

Elias, talking. He’s still here. He’s supposed to be having an important conversation right now.

“I don’t. I don’t know.”

A warm hand brushes his. “Hey, are you okay? Sorry to spring this on you so suddenly. It’s just been on my mind lately.” He glances around the crowded room. “Or maybe we could go somewhere else if this place is too packed?”

“No, it’s—” 

Kaidan’s omni blinks orange. He looks down at it. A text from Liv. 

_Here’s the actual report about Shepard. I’m so sorry, Kaidan. I’m here if you need me—anything at all._

His stomach rolls sick. Is she _still_ keeping this up? Wasn’t that phone call enough?

“Sorry. It’s work.”

Elias nods, sipping on the coffee Kaidan didn’t realize had arrived. Sweat at the crown of his head, he opens the file. 

It’s not some random extranet thread. It’s official.

The report’s a jumble except for three sentences:

_Possible sighting of Commander Ada Shepard on Freedom’s Progress and Citadel. Departed in Cerberus-marked vessel. Requires further investigation._

No. No, no, _no._ This isn’t real. This _can’t_ be real. He looks at the coffee. At the report. At the gleaming chandelier and the bustling people and Elias. Here.

“Everything okay?”

“I have to go.”

“Oh. Did something happen?”

Kaidan grabs his coat from the back of his chair. He doesn’t look at Elias as he tugs it on, clumsy. Heartbeat a mess of palpitations. “Something came up. It’s urgent. Sorry. I know this is important, but I just—I have to go.”

“Okay, yeah, I understand. The hospital can get pretty insane, too. How about we reschedule?”

He finally looks at the man sitting there. The man with the soft laugh, the wavy hair, the gentle hands and pine-green eyes.

He needs to get out of here, of this, _now_.

“I don’t know. I’ll text you. Yeah. I’ll text you.” 

Those eyes widen. Glisten. Kaidan feels like he just kicked a puppy. “Oh, okay. Yeah. That’s. Yeah. I hope work’s alright—” 

Kaidan can’t stand here for another second. One last glance at Elias, who’s looking small with his hands frozen over his coffee, and Kaidan’s out the door. He stumbles right into the Citadel’s foot traffic. Faces a disconnected blur. Shoulders jostle into him but it doesn’t register.

This can’t be real. That report can’t be real. 

_Anderson_.

He’s standing outside Anderson’s office. Forgets to knock, but it’s open, so he walks right in. Stares at the man in his golden-blue uniform who stares right back, holding up a hand. 

“Yes, Councillor. I’ll make sure it goes through. Thank you.”

The call disconnects. 

“Anderson.”

“Alenko? What brings you here?” He motions to the chairs at the desk. “Come. Sit down.” 

Kaidan does. He can’t feel his arms. His feet are going cold too. Elias, frozen, hands over his coffee.

“Sir. The report. Have you read it?”

“You’ll need to be more specific. Which report?”

“You _know_ what report I’m talking about. The one about Shepard, sir.”

“Ah. Someone forwarded it to you.”

“Yeah, _obviously._ Just tell me if it’s real or not.”

Anderson sighs. “I’m sorry. I can’t confirm it.”

Kaidan grits his teeth as the edge of hot, serrated anger cuts into him. He _can’t_ handle Anderson being evasive. Not now. “Oh, come on. You and I both know that’s not true. Just _tell_ me.”

Anderson lifts an eyebrow at him. "I understand you’re upset, but I’m still your superior officer. Watch your tone.”

“Tell me, _sir.”_

“I can’t confirm it. Really. Orders from the higher ups. I’m sorry.”

Kaidan hits the bone of his knee into the desk when he gets to his feet. Doesn’t sense the dull ache spreading through the joint. More of that suffocating burn radiates through his body. God, Anderson cannot be stonewalling him about this _._ Not _this._

He’s pacing. From desk to corner and back.

“So, what, I’m just supposed to ignore it? She died. She got _spaced,_ Anderson. I heard it happen! And now they’re saying she’s alive and working for Cerberus? I’m sorry, but that seems a little far-fucking-fetched to me.”

Anderson leans back in his chair, leveling him with a granite look. Why’s he so calm about this? “You’ve heard about those missing colonies, haven’t you?”

He stops in the middle of the room and glares at Anderson. 

“Sure, but what the hell does that have to do with Shepard?”

“There’s a mission in the Terminus. Colony protection. There’s a tip one of ours might get hit next. You up for the job?”

Kaidan keeps staring at him, dumbfounded, but his face shows no signs about what he’s playing at.

He crosses his arms tight—and can feel his heart pounding through his chest. “Okay, yeah, fine. I’ll take it. But you’re seriously not going to tell me what that report about Shepard was?” He takes a shaky, broken breath. “Sir. _Please_.”

Some of the granite hardness in Anderson’s gaze cracks away. “I’m sorry. I would if I could, but my hands are tied. Now, I’ve got a meeting with Udina, but I’ll forward you the details on your assignment.” He gets up, walks over, and puts a heavy hand on Kaidan’s shoulder. “Take care, son. We’ll figure this out.”

He holds Anderson’s unreadable gaze for a few more seconds but nothing happens. He’s not going to get anything else out of him. Kaidan gives him a numb, mechanical nod, shakes his hand off, and gets himself out of that office. Back into the busy streets of the Presidium. 

No answers and a shady, crappy assignment. _Great_. The thread tying him together frays right at the center.

What’s he supposed to do now?

* * *

Kaidan wishes Ash were here. She’d know what to do. More than he does, anyway.

The shuttle rumbles and bumps underneath him. Must be through upper atmo. _Come on, Alenko! Lighten up!_ Dagher’s bright, grinning face flashes through his head. God, he didn’t even get to say goodbye to the crew on the _Danton._ Sure, they weren’t exactly close friends, but… It doesn’t matter. They’d just ask him about Shepard, anyway. And Morton would give him that hard, worried look of hers. Dagher would just bounce his leg and refuse to meet Kaidan’s eyes. 

No. This is easier. New assignment. A clean break. Just like he’s done dozens of times before.

He switches on his omni. Switches his attention to something that’s not the clamminess in his palms or the dull ache in his chest. He reads over his messages with Elias from this morning.

_Hey. Sorry for bailing like that earlier. But I think you’re right. The long distance isn’t working. I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship right now, either. I had a lot of fun getting to know you—and I can’t thank you enough for that. Really. Good luck with everything._

_Thanks for letting me know, Kaidan. I appreciate it, and we’re on the same page about this, I think. You’re a great person, and I loved hanging out with you, but our lives just don’t match up. Take care, okay? And stay safe out there._

_Will do._

Another clean break. 

His head clunks back onto the metal wall. God. This sucks a lot more than he thought it would. He liked Elias. Had _fun_ with him. Still. The kind of guy Elias is, he’ll find someone more—well, stable, in no time. At least neither of them have to lose sleep over the whole thing anymore.

No. Now Kaidan gets to lose sleep over something way worse.

That rotten, sour taste in his mouth comes back. He tries to focus on his boots touching the floor. The way the vibrations of the shuttle go up into his ankles. Not on the slimy wave of nausea. Not on the tangled knot throbbing behind his forehead. Not on— 

_She might be alive._

_Might be working for Cerberus, too._

He slides his dry, bloodshot eyes shut. He can’t stop thinking about it. For the past couple days, he’s read through that report dozens—maybe hundreds—of times. None of it makes sense. Every time he sees _Commander Ada Shepard_ next to the words _alive_ and _Cerberus_ his brain just. Blanks.

Opening his eyes back up, he switches his omni back on. Pulls up the report. Scrolls. Switches it off. Switches it on. Off. 

He's not the crazy one here, right? He _knows_ Ada died. He was there. He heard it. He’s been crushed under that fact for two whole years, and the second he thinks he might be crawling out from under it, _this_ report surfaces? It can’t be right. There has to be something else going on here.

 _But what if she_ is _alive? There wasn’t a body. What if it’s not just a faulty report and—_

Sucking in a sharp breath, he pushes his knuckle into his eyebrow. No. He can’t bear the brunt of that idea. Not right before a mission.

The shuttle pilot hums a song Kaidan’s never heard under his breath. What was the pilot’s name? No idea. He can’t even remember the name of the colony Anderson assigned him to. Which isn’t great, but there hasn’t been any space inside him for words, names, food ever since he got that call from Liv. 

_Clone. Galactic conspiracy. Long lost evil twin. Smear campaign. Dark magic.  
_

He would do anything to get that drive with the footage on it back. He could go through what happened frame by frame. See if he remembered it wrong. Maybe that last choke wasn’t her last, or it was and he could be _sure_ of it. Maybe he missed something crucial. Maybe having that file in his hands would finally— _finally_ —put an end to his brain gnawing itself down to the bone.

“—here, Commander. Signal when you need to report back to the Citadel. And good luck.”

Oh. They’re groundside. He nods in the pilot’s general direction, clicking on his helmet. The door slides open into sunlight and a whirlwind of beige sand. 

Okay. No matter what the hell’s going on, he has a colony to protect. At least he can get _that_ done right.

* * *

The colonists on Horizon don’t trust Kaidan, which okay, alright, understandable enough. But they’re making his job of fixing and calibrating the GARDIAN guns near impossible. Delan is sullen and uncooperative, and it took him two whole days to hand over the schematics. Not that the schematics helped much. With his head still chewing on that report, focusing on them is no easy task. Even if it were, the towers are so intricately built he’d need _way_ more than him and the two other engineers there to get them up and running quickly. Still. He’ll do what he can. He has to, especially if the tip’s right and this colony is gonna get hit in the next few weeks. It’s a lot of long nights of watery coffee and cursing under his breath.

Kaidan does what he can until a swarm of— _s_ _omething_ blots out the sun.

“Go! Get to the safehouse! I’ll cover you!” 

Noah—the only one who actually talks to him around here—scrambles away, tripping through the crowd of fleeing colonists. Kaidan fires rounds at the pulsing, swarming mass of—Jesus, what the hell are those? Locusts? Doesn’t matter. His finger presses into the trigger hard, breath kicking up a notch. 

Guns aren’t cutting it. 

His implant hums. Blue spreads fast over the surface of his skin. Building, buzzing, thrumming bigger, gathering strength—then he pushes the wall of blue _out_ in the biggest field he can manage, arms burning _._ Some of the damn bugs disperse. 

“Go!” 

A sweaty, wild-eyed colonist sprints through the gap.

More buzzing. Everywhere. A man on the other side of the swarm, screaming. Kaidan’s skin lights up blue, another field thrumming and prepped. 

A needle-hot stinger jabs into the softness of his neck. He curses, swats it away. Stumbles back. Works to get the field up again.

The first thing that go are his hands. From one breath to the next, the joints in his fingers go stiff. Unmovable. Can’t turn. Knees locked into place. Wrists. Elbows. Shoulders. Feet. Neck. Eyes. Mouth. The swarm skitters in a cluster over him. Through him.

_What—what the—my body—_

It doesn’t stop his pounding heart. He can still hear the colonists’ ragged screams behind him. He sees the door in front of him, the trampled grass, his motionless boots. 

That goddamn _thing_ that stung him. This must be how the colonies are taken so easily. More shrieks. The thud of rigid bodies hitting the ground. 

Shit. _Shit!_ His thigh muscles strain against the paralytic. His whole mission was to protect the colony—he was supposed to make sure this _didn’t_ happen. A few more sleepless nights and he would’ve had the guns up. They could’ve blown that ship out of the sky. This wouldn’t be happening.

He has to get out of this. 

His implant clicks but his biotics don’t activate. Sweat trickles down his forehead. Trying to move his thumb, or neck, or mouth. Nothing responds. 

He’s cut off from himself.

His chest constricts. No. He has to get out of this. Has to save them. Can’t lose another thing. 

As he tries to push his arms against the paralytic, it dawns on him that the buzzing noise of the swarms is gone. The crackling hum of the huge, looming ship is the only thing left. It resonates through the whole colony; bounces of walls and creeps into Kaidan’s skull. Loud. Headache-inducing. 

He’s glad that’s not a Reaper ship.

A street over, there’s a chittering, clicking noise. Footsteps. Whatever’s been abducting colonists must be here. Collectors? That’s the rumor. He thought it was just that. Rumor. But they’ll drag them into that ship and kill them—or worse—and it’s on him. Sweat in his armor. He’s still doing his damn best to break the hold his body’s in. Ada never would’ve let this—

A dull _bang_ in the distance grabs his attention. 

_Gunshot._

Reinforcements? He tries to turn his head—all that does is send pain shooting up his immobile neck. He didn’t get the chance to send a distress call, but maybe somebody got through. 

Or maybe they’re shooting colonists.

More distant _bangs_. An image of Noah’s head in bloody pieces forces itself into his brain. God, did they take her? She’s got a kid, doesn’t she? The clicking, chittering from down the block is getting further away. They’re leaving? Or going towards the shots. His heart pounds hard in his temples—maybe he’s got back-up after all. Another attempt to kick his leg. Nothing.

The sounds of rapid-fire shots are getting so close he can feel the vibrations in his teeth. It has to be reinforcements—there’s no way it’s not. Who made it here so quickly? 

A muffled shout a street over.

“On your six, Mordin!”

Wait. Wait. That’s—

Oh. _God_. 

He’d recognize that honeyed, low voice anywhere.

It’s Ada’s voice.

Here. _Here._

Everything stops, starts, stops inside him.

This isn’t real.

A Cerberus clone. A twin. Sibling. Hallucination _._ His breath is short and the air’s thin. This isn’t possible. She’s dead.

“Watch the damn husks!”

There. Again. Rough and cracking at the edges, but there’s no denying that it’s her voice. Kaidan _knows_ that in the burning of his muscles; in fragments of memories of her shouting out the same thing on Eden Prime, on Therum, in the low light of dozens of grimy bases.

 _Ada_.

A choked, heaving noise claws up Kaidan’s throat. Can’t get past his locked teeth. 

Here.

Thirty feet away from him.

The GARDIAN guns fire off ground-shaking shots towards the ship. How? None of this is making sense. Nightmare. Has to be a nightmare. In between the blasts, he faintly hears that voice shout: “What the hell is _that_? Cover! Now!” 

A shrieking, rending sound. The same—the same— _that_ sound. Oh, god. The ground swims in front of him. He’s able to move his foot an inch forward. She’ll die all over again. Her voice is here. And ash stains the ice black. Smoke. Choking. Another inch forward. Paralytic’s wearing off. Her voice is _here_. Her voice is dying.

“Scatter!”

The air heats up to a boil around him. Or maybe that’s his own blood, boiling. Maybe _he’s_ the one dying. A screech, an explosion, and the ship starts to take off. The guns fire on it, but the air gets hotter. The pushback from take-off hits him, nearly tipping him over. How many colonists are in there? 

The tips of his fingers twitch. His elbows come back online, but the ship’s in the air and it doesn’t matter because there’s nothing he can do. The ship lifts off. Breaks atmosphere. And leaves. 

And Ada’s voice is here.

What’s left of the paralytic melts off. He lurches forward, leaning his arms on a gray pre-fab wall. God. _God._ He’s gonna start dry heaving. 

“I’m sorry. I did everything I could.”

There’s her voice. Again. He has to see. See if it’s her. Has to.

Delan storms off past him. Kaidan pushes off the wall, staggers out of the shade and steps around the corner. 

There’s a woman standing there.

Wait. _Is_ that Ada? N7 armor, but— 

“Kaidan?”

She says his name, and he’s—pulled. Pulled towards her like gravity, his hands reaching out. Have to reach out, because this isn’t—she’s dead. She’s dead and she’s standing right here. The person in N7 armor—Ada, is it Ada?—pulls him into a strong hug, armor catching on armor. And she’s solid.

Kaidan digs his hands into the back of her armor. A real back. Solid. In his hands. Not smoke, not dark space. Here. Smells like bitter armor-shine and sweat. There’s hints of mint soap underneath it all. Hints of. Of Ada.

Real. Solid. Here.

She pulls back. Still close enough he can smell her coffee-sour breath. Wait. Coffee? That’s not right. She hated coffee.

He focuses in on her face. Her eyes are that same navy blue. But there’s something off in them—glassy. And there’s the buzzcut. All her honey-brown hair gone. Red scars cut through her freckles.

He reels back. Wait. Wait. What the hell is happening? Who is he looking at?

“You’re dead.” 

“I. Yeah. I was.” Ada’s—what are supposed to be Ada’s—eyes dart to the ground. And he can’t even believe he’s thinking her name again. Looking at her eyes. “But I’m glad to see you. And I’m glad you’re okay.”

Her gaze flicks back to his, lips turned into a smile. It’s more of a twitch. 

Kaidan’s wrenched back into his body as her words hit him. Wait. What? She’s here, or something that’s supposed to be her is in front of him, _not dead_ and that’s. That’s all she has to say? _Yeah? Glad to see you?_

He takes another step back, the thread inside him tugging. Tensing. Wait. Wait. If that’s her, if that’s Ada, then that means she never died at all. She _didn’t die,_ but she didn’t tell him. Two years of barely holding himself together, and. And that’s it?

_Yeah? Glad to see you?_

“Wait. No. Wait. You were dead _._ I went to your funeral. Two years—and that’s. That’s all you have to say? How could you put me through that? And your family! How _could_ you?” Shaking. Voice shaking. Hard and loud and jagged. “You died. You were _dead,_ just like Ash, just like the crew. For two whole years. Why the hell didn’t you look for us? Say anything?”

Ada steps back, glassy eyes going wide. “I would’ve told everyone if I could’ve, Kaidan, but I was in some kind of coma while Cerberus rebuilt me. I'm so sorry. I—” 

The frayed string holding him together snaps.

Kaidan almost starts laughing. Sobbing. Both. She’s standing right here, alive, and Liv wasn’t lying after all. 

This _is_ a nightmare.

“So the report was right. You’re alive. And you’re actually with Cerberus now. I can’t believe it.”

Start walking and never stop. That’s what he wants. 

“I’m not _with_ them. I’m using them to stop the Collectors. That’s it.” There’s a Cerberus shuttle behind her. A Cerberus logo stamped on her pistol. Cerberus crew lingering behind her.

Start walking. Never stop. Yeah. That’s it. His mouth is moving. He doesn’t know what it’s saying. 

“It’s Cerberus. You remember everything they did? Kahoku. Those experiments. You know how bad they are, and you’re _helping_ them? What the hell?”

“I don’t like it either, Kaidan!” She snarls out, voice cresting and breaking. “If I had _any_ other choice I’d be back with the Alliance in a heartbeat, but I don’t have that option. Alright?”

Walking. Never stopping. Cerberus orange stamped on her pistol. Red scarring right through her eyebrow. Orange and red and nightmare. Nightmare. Nightmare.

“What? You _can_ come back, but you’re—you’re betraying everything we stood for. You're betraying the Alliance. Me. I don’t get it. I don’t get it.”

“No. You don’t get it. I have to do this.” Her tone is hard as granite. Jaw set. The line of her shoulders tense like wire.

“I need to report back to the Citadel.”

_I need to get away from this. From you._

His body turns on its heel. This isn’t _her_. This isn’t her. Cerberus orange stamped. Freckles lined with red. Not her. Can’t be.

“Wait.” Her voice is quieter now. Something small and fragile held right at the edges. Kaidan can’t help but turn towards it. Never could. “I’m sorry I’m doing this. I have to.”

“No. You don’t.”

Her chin drops.

“Goodbye, Ada. And be careful.”

_Walk away. Never stop._

* * *

Kaidan can’t deal with this.

By some miracle, he managed to give a coherent report to Anderson on the Citadel. Took the shore leave he offered. Got to Earth. Didn’t lose it on the shuttle back.

Now. He’s standing in his apartment. Bag on the floor.

Staring at his shaking hands. 

He’s been shaking ever since he left Anderson’s office. No matter how hard he’s been trying to calm down. Another try at a useless breathing exercise—in, hold, out—but he’s just dizzier. He’s in the kitchen. All he can see is her scarred, pale face. The Cerberus orange stamped on her gun. Smell the mint, the dust, the armor-shine.

She was there. Alive. Or something. That happened. That actually—that _happened._

He’s started pacing. That happened. The scars, the Cerberus orange, the words that made no damn _sense._ Clenching and unclenching fists. Blue bleeds onto his skin. It sparks. Spills over the edges.

This makes no damn sense.

_You’re dead._

_Yeah. I was._

That’s it? That’s _it?_ He digs his nails into his palms until they bite with pain. She was dead but she wasn’t, not really, she was in some Cerberus lab and she didn’t _say anything._ For two _years_ he’s been falling the hell apart and if she’d just told him, he _—_

A small, fragile voice in the back of his head: _she said she was in a coma._

He shuts his eyes tight. A lash of blue flares off his shoulder. That doesn’t matter. That doesn’t _matter!_ Dead people don’t come back to life. They don’t die for two years and then stand in front of you asking how you’re doing, that they’re glad you’re okay, like he’s ever been okay for one goddamn _day_. That doesn’t happen. He isn’t the crazy one here. He _isn’t_. 

And she’s with Cerberus.

Cerberus.

He leans his shaking, sparking body on the counter. How is he supposed to understand any of this? The Normandy blew up. Ada died. He nearly lost his mind because of it. Now she’s back and she’s, what, working for the very organization they spent _months_ dismantling together? In what world does that make sense?

Pressing his fingers into his forehead. Hard. Harder. Did she forget the way her voice _shook_ with rage after Cerberus killed Kahoku? The way she left the bases full of their experiments pale and pissed off? The time she called Cerberus a _galactic fucking blight?_ She _said_ that to him. And now she’s flying their colors.

Tears burn hot at the edges of his vision. He sucks in a shaky, long breath. Doesn’t help. Can’t breathe. Hasn’t been able to breathe for years.

Ada’s alive. She’s Cerberus. He spent two years grieving and sobbing and having panic attacks in the grocery store for _nothing_.

His sparking, flaring field dies out. The big, boiling heat inside him goes heavy. Heat into weight.

_For nothing._

He tries to hold it back, to breathe deep, to keep it in but he can’t.

The sobs heave out of him. Shake his shoulders. He leans his head on his fist, each gasp broken up and strangled. Just like hers were in that footage. Footage that never mattered. Because she was standing in front of him, alive. Abandoning him for Cerberus. 

The pink, webbed scar tissue all over his heart rips back open.


	6. A Bleak Shore

Kaidan’s shivering in the parking garage before the sun’s up. He scrapes frost off his windshield, knuckles red and cracked from the chill. His bag is heavy on his shoulder.

Yeah. He needed to get the hell out of his apartment.

Getting into the car, he tosses the ice scraper back into the glove-box. Presses the ignition. The car thrums to life. He turns on the heat, blows warm breath on his stiff fingers, but they do nothing. His hands have been numb and cold ever since—well. Horizon.

 _Horizon_. He punches in his destination on the console; turns on manual steering. Driving himself will be a good distraction. The car lifts off the ground, and he backs out of the lot, glides carefully up into the highway. No traffic at this hour, which is probably a good thing. As he settles into the drive, a drive he’s done hundreds of times, his gaze strays out to black water of the bay. Silvery skyscraper lights shimmer off it. 

Huh. Nothing’s changed. Feels like something should’ve changed after he got back. Like there should be fire. Or smoke. Or people shouting in the streets.

But there’s nothing. Just him and the empty highway. 

The image of Ada’s gaunt, scarred face floats into his head. The Cerberus shuttle behind her. The blue sky, the dust. 

He stiffens, taking the exit onto the freeway as carefully as he can. No. No. Everything’s fine. The city’s fine. He’s fine. His hands quickly switch on the radio, looking for anything else to think about. 

“—sightings of Commander Ada Shepard on the Citadel. The Alliance issued an official statement last night, condemning her work with Cerberus and cutting off all ties with her. It is unclear how or why Shepard—” 

_Crap._ He clenches his jaw, shutting it off. Bad idea.

The smell of dust, sweat and mint. 

His foot pushes down an inch on the accelerator. The roofs of suburban houses whip by him. He doesn’t have to think about it. He—

_Sounds sappy, but the Alliance is my home. Always has been. The only way I’m leaving is in a box._

He takes a hand off the console, digging his nails into his leg. God, she said that to him once, didn’t she? When he’d asked if she’d ever considered going into something else. And she’d been so proud: chin high, shoulders squared. What the hell happened to that? Maybe Cerberus wiped her memory. Put a chip in her. Because the alternative doesn’t make any sense.

A lone skycar going the other direction speeds past him, headlights in his eyes. He’s leaving the outskirts of the city. Clusters of pine trees spread out below him, dark and silent.

Kaidan scowls at the trees, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek. How is he supposed to understand _any_ of this? He can’t wrap his head around the idea that she’s out there, breathing and alive. The idea that she freely decided to work for _Cerberus_ of all places is even more unbelievable. He’s supposed to believe that Ada Shepard, hero of Elysium, savior of the Citadel, the person who made him feel _safe,_ who never turned away, who made the Normandy feel like home—she died but didn’t, never told him, came back, and works for Cerberus now? How— 

_Maybe I didn’t know her._

He goes cold, his foot slipping off the accelerator. Stomach twisting into a knot. He shakes his head. Straightens his foot back onto the pedal. _No_. He doesn’t want to go down that line of thinking. Can’t take it.

His gaze catches on the dark forest to his right, and he can’t stop his head from spinning out. 

Maybe what happened is that she faked it all. Faked the steady warmth in her eyes, the hands that pulled him close, the tender concern for the crew. Maybe that’s it. He followed and fell for a lie. Her charm was just that: charm. Something bright to cover up the rot inside her. 

He swallows. Centers his eyes back on the road. That’d mean that, what, her safe steadiness when he told her about Vyrnnus, her bloodshot eyes over Ash, the way she made stew for the crew were all an act? She was _safe_. She made them all feel so safe. And he’s held onto that memory so long, a lifeline. To get him through the hardest nights. But all along—it might’ve been a _lie_? 

The heavy cold in his body sinks deep. Right into his muscles. He keeps driving, but he’s moving on auto-pilot, taking every turn without looking. Even more thankful that there’s no one out here right now. 

_An act._

The landscape below him shifts into dirt and farm. The mountains stretch out forever, the sky behind them breaking into a shimmery, deep blue. More turns. Passing lines of pumpkins and flaking red barns. He’s almost there. Shivering, cold, even with the heat blasting on high.

_A lie._

He passes the painted mailbox and slows down. Gets lower to the ground. His parents’ orchard rises up in front of him, the big windows of the house still dark. Apple trees are lined up behind the porch. Some of the tension in his arms loosens at the familiar sight of it. Nothing’s changed here. He can count on that.

He pulls into the driveway, setting his car down in the gravel. Turns it off. Lets out a shaky sigh into the murky gloom. Checks the time on his omni—it’s five in the morning. Yeah. No wonder they’re not awake yet. He goes to turn his omni off but his hands hover over it. 

The chill permeating his whole body. 

He taps his gallery. And he scrolls until he finds it. The selfie they took on that hike in Flagstaff. 

He stares at it until his eyes water. Until the sun breaks bright over the mountains. That warm grin on Ada’s face, that pink flush on her cheeks, that sparkle in her eyes. Her strong arm around his shoulders.

Was she a bad person underneath all the shine? Unsafe? Dangerous? Did he miss the signs?

Was he—god. Was he so, _so_ wrong about her?

* * *

Kaidan tosses another apple into the wicker basket. His hands are clumsy in the brittle autumn air. Silver-black, thick storm clouds brew at the edge of the sky, the air tinged with a metallic smell. He should hurry it up—the rain won’t wait forever. 

His mom smiles at him, full-up basket on her hip. “How’s it going?”

“Almost done.”

“Okay. Meet you inside, alright? Then we’ll get started with the pie.”

A nod. He tugs another apple off the branch. Ever since he stumbled into their kitchen at six in the morning yesterday, they’ve been worrying about him. More than usual. Asking and not asking questions about Ada. Giving him looks. Being extra sweet. It’s intense. A lot to handle.

Still. Being alone back at his place wasn’t exactly easy, either. All he was doing was watching the news. Pacing to the window and back. Thinking himself into corners. Being here is better than being alone.

Another apple chewed through by a worm. He places it in the basket anyway.

That’s when it hits him.

_I don’t like it either, Kaidan!_

He freezes, gaze stuck on the knotted branch in front of him. Thunder rumbles in the distance. He can’t move.

_The glistening, bruised look in her eyes. The swollen undercircles. Shakiness in her hands. Scarring running up her neck and onto her cheeks. Shortness of breath. The deep frown. The quiet, desperate roughness to her voice when she asked him to wait. Like after Ash._

_The gasping in dark space._

Oh, god. 

Kaidan leans his hand on the trunk of the apple tree, the bark rough under his palm. For the past couple days, he’s been working under the assumption that Ada did this out of some hidden malice he never caught. Some rotten thing he missed. But she _could_ be under duress. A hostage. _No other option._ Yeah. She kept saying that. If Cerberus is holding something over her head—maybe that’d explain why she’s sticking with them. 

Distantly, his dad turns up the music on the kitchen radio. A cold raindrop lands on Kaidan’s forearm. 

Even duress, though, that doesn’t really match up with the Ada he knew. Thought he knew. She’d figure out some other way to stop the Collectors without involving Cerberus. That was her whole thing: finding a better way. So why _isn’t_ she? 

He wishes he could call and ask. Talk to her. He just. He wants to talk to her again. Ask. That’s all. 

More raindrops. Falling faster now. They pelt the apples and slide down leaves. He exhales hard, picking up the basket of apples. Goes inside.

His dad waves at him when he walks in, flour on his hands, saying something over the music. Kaidan leaves his basket on the counter. “Gonna go wash up. Be right back.”

He heads over to the guest room. Has to check. He kneels down, rummaging around his bag on the quilted carpet. He’s pretty sure he brought it with him. Still not sure why he tossed it in his bag, but it _was_ three in the morning when he packed, so— 

There. His hands close around a flat, rectangular box. Wrapped in polka-dotted paper. An enamelled, otter-shaped keychain inside. He stays there on his knees, staring at it. Outside, there’s more rolls of thunder. Rain slides down the windows. Pings off the gutters. Storm’s getting bad.

_“Hi, Pip.” A big, awed smile as the otter closes her hand around Ada’s finger. The quiet, steady way she looks at him as he stumbles through telling her about Vyrnnus. A hiking trail, cool mountain air, she picks a yellow flower. Tucks it behind his ear. A boiling-hot planet, Tali’s shields go down and there’s a geth with a pistol, her body between the two—she takes the hit instead. A fluffy labrador trots down the pier, she grins big, she asks if she can pet the dog. Ada next to Liara. There’s a gun in her hand, and she explains stance in an even, warm tone._

The wrapping paper creases under his fingers. There’s no way she could’ve faked _all_ of that. Right? And if she didn’t, if it _was_ real ... All this might be tough on him, but if there’s _anything_ left of that safe, kindhearted woman he remembers, he can’t even begin to imagine how hard this is. Getting spaced. Knowing what her loved ones went through for two years. Working for a place like Cerberus but—for whatever reason—feeling trapped there. Kaidan gingerly puts the gift away and gets up, leaning all his weight on his desk. His parents talk and sing in the kitchen. The clink of ceramic dishes.

God. He’s been assuming she’s completely changed. That her tenderness was all some big ruse, some big lie because she made the choice to work for Cerberus. But he can’t blindly assume that’s the case. That warm, protective heart might still be in there, and if it is, it must be _killing_ her to do this.

Dizziness washes over him.

He wasn’t fair to her on Horizon. Not really. Not to the Ada he knew. Even if he still can’t understand why she’s working with Cerberus, why she came back from the dead, even if he can’t see past two years of grief—all he did was make this harder. For the both of them.

His omni blinks orange.

His chest stabs the whole way through the email. The scent of apple pie wafts through the warm, storm-sheltered house. Cerberus can’t be trusted, and as long as Ada’s with them, he can’t take the risk of trusting her, either. He’s been in too many of their blood-stained bases, needles stuck in limp bodies. Still. He needs to apologize, maybe. Explain himself. Just in case he didn’t actually fall for a monster. Just in case the Ada he knew is still in there somewhere. 

_Take care._

* * *

Kaidan traces the edge of his glass of water with his thumb. Up, down. The glass is cool against his skin. Weak afternoon light spills through the window, glinting off the day-old water.

_Hospital bed, glint of a scalpel, Ada’s freckles peeled off one by one, blood soaking into sheets_

He digs his thumb into the dull edge of the glass, jaw muscles tight. Another damn nightmare. He’s been on shore leave for a week and a few days now and all he’s been having are nightmares. All about her. He thought sending her that email and staying with his parents for a few days would make him feel better. Fix things. 

But he’s still got that sick, heavy chill in his muscles. Still can’t stomach anything that’s not a nutrition shake. Had to throw out most of the apple pie his folks sent him back with.

Damn it. He’s hiding again. He knows that. Like after Vyrnnus, and the funeral, and everything that’s ever happened to him—he’s locking down. Keeping himself contained. A stupid habit he can’t seem to break out of.

His omni buzzes. An update on the feed he set up: there’s been a sighting of Ada on Illium. There’s a picture. It’s grainy, but she still has freckles dotted in between the glow of the scarring. Okay. His nightmare was just a nightmare. She’s got her head turned towards a woman wearing Cerberus-marked armor, though.

Right. _That_ part of his nightmares is still real.

He slumps his head down onto his arm on the table. Stares at his coat rack through his glass. Warped. The Alliance jacket hangs there, untouched. Shore leave’s gonna be up soon. He’ll have to go back. He’ll have to lace up boots, clip on armor, keep his chin high, even though—even though she’s not there. Even though she’s turned her back on them. Gone.

Kaidan shuts his eyes. Yeah. He has no idea how he’s going to get through it.

A loud ring at the door jars him out of his head. He rushes to his feet, heart pounding in his throat. Who the hell’s visiting him _now?_ Was Caleb flying in this week? No. That was next month. 

The doorbell rings again. They’re impatient. Great. Kaidan runs a hand through his hair as he heads over to the door. He checks the console.

Anderson’s face greets him.

Ice-water-shock runs through him. Huh? _Anderson?_ What’s he doing all the way here? Something’s wrong. Must be. He opens the door.

“Anderson? What are you doing here?”

He gives Kaidan a placid, calm smile that doesn’t reassure him one bit. “You weren’t taking my calls. I happened to be in the neighborhood. Can I come in?”

Kaidan blinks. That wasn’t much of an explanation. Still, he steps aside. “Sure. Yeah.” 

Anderson walks in easy, taking off his coat and hanging it up. Kaidan warily eyes him, watching as he takes in his apartment. His place is clean enough, if a little dusty, but still. There’s no good _reason_ for him to be here. Anderson heads over to the dining table, pulling out a chair. Yeah. This must be bad news. You don’t get a house visit from Anderson if nothing’s wrong.

He clears his throat and Kaidan snaps to.

“Oh, right. You want something to drink?”

“No, that’s fine, thank you. I do want to talk to you. Have a seat.”

Kaidan’s stomach churns as walks over and sits down, clasping his hands in front of him. This can’t be good. Anderson offered him the shore leave and taking it isn’t a crime, but maybe he’s here to demote him. Chew him out for—for something. 

Or maybe someone’s dead. 

“What’s this about, sir? Did something happen?”

“No. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. I wanted to check in with you, that's all. How are you holding up?” Anderson levels him with a hearth-warm, steady look. 

He arches an eyebrow. Okay, it’s good no one’s dead, but—a social call? _Unusual_ would be putting it mildly. “I’m fine. I needed the shore leave.”

“I understand. I’m sorry your assignment on Horizon ended like it did. Any soldier would need some downtime after that.”

_Understatement of the year._

“Yeah.”

Anderson sighs, heavy. “I’m sorry about Shepard, too. I never imagined she’d work for Cerberus. Not in a million years. For what it’s worth, I believe she’s trying to do the right thing. At least. I hope so.”

Hevstiffens at the mention of Shepard. He lowers his gaze to the half-empty glass of water that’s still there, swallowing hard. “I’ve been trying to tell myself that, sir. That the Shepard I followed to hell and back is in there somewhere. But we can’t be _sure_ , and that’s … Hard.”

For a second, Anderson’s collected demeanor falters, his mouth pulling down into a frown. “I hear you. The uncertainty of where she actually stands is tough to grapple with. I wish—Well. It doesn’t matter. All we can do is wait and see how this plays out.”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

Silence stretches between them. Kaidan stares at the glass of water. The sun’s lowered in the sky, and the light gleaming off the water is a burned orange now.

Anderson taps his fingers on the table. “I was hoping to help you out, actually. I have an assignment that could take your mind off things.”

Oh. Kaidan’s heart sinks. Anderson’s not just here to see if he’s okay. It’s about work. It’s always about work.

“I see. What’s the assignment?” His tone is flat. He glances at his camo-blue jacket by the door. Damn it. It’s happening way sooner than he thought. How is he supposed to— 

“I’d like you to head the Alliance’s first all-biotics company. It’d be a teaching position. You’d take promising young biotics and train them in covert ops.”

His thoughts stutter out. Wait, what? Did he hear that right? The first Alliance biotics company? Teaching? They want _him_? 

Wow. They must be desperate.

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. You’re an exceptional biotic, Kaidan. Hell, I’d wager you’re one of the best humanity has. Plus, you’re a dependable leader. You understand hardship and you know when to push or pull back. We don’t want just anyone for this project. We want you. I mean that.” 

Kaidan stares at him, a foggy sense of disbelief settling over him. No. They don’t want him. If they knew how crap he’s been functioning lately, they’d keep him _very_ far away from this thing.

“What happens if I say no?”

Anderson tilts his head at him. “I doubt you’re going to. When the Reapers invade, we’ll need an organized biotic force. Shepard worried about that.”

Kaidan digs his nails into his hand at the mention of Shepard.

“I’m not the only good biotic out there. And I’m no teacher.”

“I won’t force you to take this on, but it’d be a mistake to pass it up. Really.”

Kaidan swallows down a grumble. He’s wanted the Alliance to recognize and officially implement biotics his whole career, and now they’re asking _him_ to lead the charge. Two years ago, he would’ve jumped on this. But now? He’s not so sure he can be the leader— _te_ _acher_ —they want him to be. 

“I don’t know.”

Hand on his shoulder. “Think about it. I’ll be at HQ for a few more days, so when you make a decision, we'll talk about it.”

Anderson gets to his feet. The warmth of his hand leaves Kaidan’s shoulder. The gold lining of his Alliance blues glints in the light, and all of a sudden he can’t stand the idea of Andersom walking out of here. Leaving him alone. 

Kaidan gets to his feet. His gaze darts to the dishes piled up in the sink. 

Ada’s gone. As far as anyone knows, she isn’t coming back. Not soon. The Reapers won’t wait for her, and god _damn_ it, he’s wanted this for years. He’s fought for this for years. Some burning part of him has always wanted to be everything Vyrnnus wasn’t.

The dishes drip with gray water. Anderson shoulders on his coat. Kaidan makes a choice.

“Wait. Wait. I’ll do it, Anderson. I'm in.”

* * *

“Great work, everyone. Take a break and eat something. We’ll get back to it after lunch.”

Dimitri exhales, loud. “Oh, thank god. I’m so _hungry._ Uh. Sir.” 

Kaidan smiles at him, nodding over to the mess. The other biotics shuffle out the training room, rolling tense shoulders and shaking out static. 

Except for Clarke. He throws another block at the target. Kaidan crosses his arms, breathing deep. Okay. All his students are a bunch of workaholics, but Clarke’s the worst one. He reminds him of Ada in a roundabout way—maybe it’s how he always tries to push himself that extra mile. He’s stubborn, that’s for sure.

“Hey, Clarke. How about lunch?”

The kid turns to Kaidan, pale, gaunt face shiny with sweat, his brown curls damp too. The room’s emptied out by now, and all that’s left are discarded blocks and water bottles on the sidelines. 

“One more. ‘Til I get the strength right. Not gonna be able to take out targets in one hit with what I’ve got, sir.”

Kaidan steps in closer and Clarke shrinks back. His throat constricts. He’s not Vyrnnus—he’s been trying to stay as far away from that teaching “method” as possible. He steps back, putting his hands in his pockets. 

“You’re not going to be able to hit anything if you pass out. I heard there’s carbonara today. That was your favorite, yeah?”

“I need to get this right before next week. Everyone else—well. Nevermind.”

“Hey. If something’s on your mind, I’d like to hear it. Off the record if needed.”

“It’s not a big deal. Really.”

“Well, you don’t _have_ to talk about it. Still, if there’s something bothering you, I’m here. We can figure it out, you know?” Kaidan’s tone is low and quiet. Never raising his voice: that’s something he’s damn well committed to.

Clarke taps his fingers against the block, wide eyes flitting to the corner of the room. Distant shouts and laughter echo from the mess. “I’m. I’m worried I’m not cut out for this program, sir.” 

_Ah._

“What makes you think that?”

“The other students. Most of them were top of their class, but I never was. You still picked me, and I don’t get why.” Clarke is chewing on his lip, his nerves emanating off him in near-palpable waves. Kaidan’schest tugs, _hard_ —he looks so damn scared. 

“Okay, yeah. Worrying you’re not qualified enough is a hard feeling to deal with on your own.”

“Yeah. I feel like I'm not supposed to be here.”

Kaidan hums, nodding over to the water cooler. They walk over, and Clarke fills up his water bottle. Hands shaky. “You know, I didn’t solely base my decisions on grades. I chose you because given your history in the Terminus, you have the ability to survive adversity."

“What?"

He gives Clarke a warm, honest smile. Does his best to. The kid's still staring at him like a deer in headlights. “Not everyone here’s going to be able to handle real covert ops when we get to them, good grades or not. You will. Your ability to keep cool under fire is a huge part of doing well. Trust me.” 

Clarke swallows hard. He still looks nervous as hell, but maybe there’s less tension in his shoulders. Maybe.

“I. Oh. Okay. Good to know. Thank you. Sir.”

“Not a problem. No need to push yourself until you break—we’re all on the same team here. Now, go get some food, alright?”

The teen nods, half-jogging out the room and towards the mess. Kaidan looks past him, worry burrowing into his brain. God, he really hopes that was reassuring, not condescending. How did Ada do this with the crew all the time? 

Well. That doesn’t matter. He should go get lunch, too. In the two months he’s been here he’s barely showed up. Too crowded and too noisy. He’s taking care of himself by not going. Avoiding a migraine. It’s not because every time he walks into the mass of uniforms and trays, he expects to see a woman with bright, blue eyes grin at him from one of the tables, a certain Gunnery-Chief next to her. It’s not because someone there’s using apple shampoo and that makes the nausea so bad he can’t eat. It’s not because whenever a glass clatters to the floor, he can’t stop himself from flinching to the left.

No. It’s none of that. It’s just self-care. Like Edkins encouraged, like Morton preached. Yeah. Basic self-care.

Kaidan goes to his office. He’s got protein bars in there, and that should be enough until he gets home for dinner. Half-finished progress reports wait for him on his terminal. He stares at the screen, the cursor blinking. He’s gotta get these done by Monday.

His fingertips itch. A glance at his omni. Clenching his jaw, dragging his eyes back to the screen _._ Progress reports. Update Molinas’ first, then Clarke’s. 

He needs to check once. That's it.

He switches on his omni with a heavy sigh. It’ll only be a few minutes. 

The feed got updated last night. The sore spot behind his left eyebrow throbs as he scrolls through sightings and the conspiracy threads. Ada’s been spotted on the Citadel. Again. There’s a zoomed-in pic of her scowling at a shopkeeper. 

His throat burns.

Kaidan knows he should stop. The feed's not good for him—always checking, waiting, checking. He should delete it and concentrate on his job. Him glancing at it every free chance he gets isn’t going to keep Ada from dying again, or help him figure out where the hell she stands. And there’s no way he’s going to wake up to a notification that she’s at HQ in Alliance blues, that she’s back, that she’s not Cerberus anymore. That’s not gonna happen. 

He’s gotta put her away. Again.

Maybe he’ll delete it tomorrow. Yeah. Tomorrow. For now, he stares at another news report about her in some bar on Omega. There’s a pic of her and her team. Red strobe lights fill most of the frame, but she’s scowling, mouth a frown. Every pic he’s seen of her she’s got that frown.

Doesn’t seem right.

Five minutes slip away and by some Herculean effort, he pulls himself away from the feed and the omni. He turns it off, tries to massage out the ache behind his eyebrow, and pushes down the afterimage of her. 

Work. Progress reports. These kids who actually need him. They’re what matter now.


	7. Empty Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for a few violent, body-horror-like descriptions in this one.

“What the hell, Nielsen? I can’t believe these actually taste good!” Perez laughs out through a big bite of—what are those? Lemon bars? Looks like it. It’s not exactly the most protein-packed food he'd _want_ them to eat after a long day of drills, but. Food's food, so. He smiles softly, grabbing his stray water bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches his tired students all flock towards the grinning, proud, tall giant that is Nielsen. Or his tupperware, more like. Clarke’s even there, his usual frown-lined face lit up as he gingerly bites into the powdered bar.

Softness spreads through Kaidan as he stuffs the bottle in his bag and shoulders it. Yeah. It’s great they’re bonding. God knows the only reason he survived Brain Camp was because of the people that stuck by his side. Not that he wants _his_ students to have to rely on each other to survive his training—he’s not going for that level of brutality—but. Still. It’s good they aren’t alone. He heads towards the gym door, checking the time on his omni. He should be able to catch the six-thirty— 

“Oh, wait! Do you want one, sir? I promise they’re good.” 

A tupperware in front of him. Nielsen smiles at him, unabashed, while Clarke and Perez nervously linger behind. 

Kaidan blinks, hands falling away from his omni. “For, uh. For me?” 

“‘Course! They’re sure as hell better than protein bars. Wait, it’s not against regs, right? Crap.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t mind.” 

He takes one of the bright-yellow, sugared squares. Nielsen’s big blue eyes watch him. Expectant. He takes a bite. The perfectly buttery, zesty-sweet flavor hits him. Wow _._ These might be better than the ones he makes.

“Damn, Nielsen. I’m impressed. Those are _delicious_. Feel free to bring them more often.” 

The kid grins big, giving him a casual half-salute. “Aye aye, sir.”

“Oh, but make sure you leave the gym in order, alright?” 

“Will do!” Nielsen jogs back over to the dwindling group of students. Perez shoves his shoulder and steals another bar.

With that, Kaidan heads out into the twilight-blue air. Even though it’s late spring, there’s still a bite to the air. Another check to the metro schedule. Looks like he missed the six-thirty, but it’s not like Caleb or Liv ever cared that much about being punctual, anyway. All it is a catch-up drink at the bar, and they’ve got some new friends— _just_ friends, they reassured him, nothing more—they want him to meet. 

Lucky for him, he missed rush hour. The train station’s empty, and the silence is nice. He can still taste the lemon, and god, he could’ve eaten that whole box. He had no idea Nielsen of all people could actually— 

Two kids on hoverboards zoom past him with a shout. Kaidan flinches to the left, hard, nearly slamming his thigh into the metal of a bench. 

_Damn it._ He clenches his jaw, the soft feeling inside him replaced with the painful pounding of his heart. It’s been, what, almost six months since Ada resurfaced? He’s keeping his head above water, but his startle reflex is still touchy. That doesn’t feel like it'll ever change. Not at this rate.

He gets to his platform without any more hoverboard incidents. Three minutes until the train gets here. He leans on the wall, taking a few deep breaths of the chilly tunnel air. Turns his omni on. Stares at the orange glow. The itchiness in his hands. 

Crap. Even though he’s been good about it for the past couple months, he _still_ wants to check the feed. There were rumors about the Collectors and their attacks on the colonies drying up, so Ada must’ve dealt with … Yeah, no. 

Doesn’t matter.

He shifts his gaze to the shiny clock on the wall. It doesn’t matter. He’s doing his best not to think about it. He doesn’t check. He’s focusing on his students and pushing through the sleepless nights and jabbing stomach aches. Meeting up with friends. Seeing his parents for breakfast downtown. He’s come to—well, not acceptance, but he’s begrudgingly swallowed the fact that Ada’s alive. And she’s with Cerberus. He keeps telling himself that she’s probably different from the woman he used to know, so it’s not his job to figure her out. Not anymore.

He’s moving on. Forward. Trying to.

The orange glow taunts him in the corner of his vision. What’s one extranet search, right? It’d only be the one. 

The metro hisses to a stop in front of him, doors beeping and sliding open. The trance breaks, and Kaidan shuts off his omni. Gets on the metro, shoving his hands into his jacket’s pockets and resting his weight on the wall. That was too damn close. 

The train rumbles through the tunnel and his gaze wanders to one of the TV screens. He absentmindedly follows the rolling text as the news-anchors talk about the weather. More rain, which might make the hike he’d planned for the weekend tough, but it should still be— 

A red, glaring news alert interrupts the forecast.

_Destruction of mass relay. Batarian system of Bahak reportedly destroyed. 300,000 colonists and counting dead on Aratoht._

Everything inside him snap-freezes to a stop. What the hell?

Is. Is he reading that right? Red, glaring: destruction of mass relay. Batarian system of Bahak destroyed. Three hundred—three hundred _thousand_ dead? No. _No_. That can’t be right. 

A man in neon-green baseball cap is up on his feet. The red, glaring alert. “Holy shit.” 

Staring. Staring at the screen. Reading the headline over and over. No. Mass relays _can’t_ be destroyed. And three hundred thousand people don’t just—no. That’s too many. This can’t happen.

_Reapers._

The metro’s walls sway. He clings tight to the metal bar, knuckles white. No. They have more time. But. A mass _relay?_ A whole system gone dark? That’s the only thing that would explain it. The only thing capable of doing _this_. God. God, he’s going to be sick. Everything, frozen. Everything, swaying.

He needs to call his parents. Anderson. Alliance command. And his students. Lemon bars and Reapers. Green baseball cap is on the phone. The alert glaring behind him, red. 

_Three hundred thousand._

The headline changes.

_Commander Shepard turned herself in to Alliance officials, claiming responsibility for the attack._

The ground breaks under his feet. 

No. _No._ This isn’t happening. This is a nightmare. Kaidan drops into a chair, hand pushing at his face, hair, mouth. Fingers pinch at the skin on his temple. Staring at the red, glaring words until he’s blinking back tears.

_Three hundred thousand._

Frozen, swaying, he’s off the train. Omni chock-full of missed calls. He gets himself onto a cramped shuttle. Citadel-bound. The leathery back of the seat sticks to his cold-sweat neck. Red, glaring alerts flicker on omnis. Shaky fingertips. Hands on mouths. 

_Three hundred thousand people._

_Ada._

He digs his nails into his forearm. There are voices around him. Harsh, whispered, loud. He huddles into the corner, leaning away, but there’s no escape.

“I can’t believe this. A whole colony? That’s insane. Insane.”

Leaning his head on the cold metal of the wall. An asteroid slammed right into the relay, guided by thrusters, sent there on purpose. By Ada. That’s what they’re saying.

“That goddamn Shepard just started a war. Yeah. This time tomorrow, Earth is gonna be on fire. Fucking _shit_ , man.”

He shuts his eyes tight, focusing on the swirls and splotches of color behind his eyelids. The relay split apart on impact. The blast burned as strong as a supernova. The colonists didn’t stand a chance.

“They were miners. That’s it. I don’t get it. I don’t get why she’d do this. Why anyone would.” 

A light in the sky and then they were nothing. Or was there something? Kaidan leans his temple hard into the metal. Until it aches. Sickly flashes of it. Skin melting like wax, the red-stranded muscle sliding off with it. Glowing bones. Frozen eyes stuck, facing the sky. 

The shuttle docks. Kaidan’s on his feet, bag clutched in his shaky, cold hands. The air is too stuffy in here, smelling like wet dog, like bodies infected with shock.

“How could this happen? How could she? _How_? We’re screwed!”

He pushes through the faceless crowd. The docks are busy, there are voices everywhere, the Presidium is bright like a searchlight. Heat stabs behind his forehead. 

_Three hundred thousand people gone. Ada’s hands. Cerberus hands._

_No. Cerberus or not. She wouldn’t do this._

Anderson’s office and Kaidan’s here. Again. It’s open, so he pushes in without knocking. Anderson’s slouched at his desk, eyes glued to a fuzzy screen. _Batarian officials demand retribution. The Alliance denounces ties to Shepard and the attack._ The red glare bathes his face.

“Kaidan.”

“Tell me this isn’t real.”

Anderson nods to a chair, rummaging around in a drawer in his desk. “You should sit down.”

He collapses into the chair, legs weak. A bottle of whiskey and two glasses are placed in front of him. 

“Sir. You’re on duty.”

Anderson screws open the bottle, the worry-lines set deep in his face. “Not sure I care right now, Alenko. Want a drink?”

He shrugs. Anderson pours them two tall glasses of amber liquid. 

_Skin melting off bone. Ada’s hands._

“Anderson. Tell me this isn’t happening.”

He takes a long, long sip of his drink, fingers gripped tight around it. Kaidan’s vision is hazy as he stares at his own glass, untouched. 

“I can’t do that. This. This is real, son. And this was Shepard. I oversaw her arrest myself.”

_It was her._

It’s like getting shoved off the top of a skyscraper. Freefalling. His stomach in his throat.

“Why. Why would she? It’s a whole colony of miners. They didn’t…Why? She was Cerberus, yeah, but she wouldn’t do _this_.”

“Reapers. She said they were planning an invasion through that relay, but destroying it stopped them. Bought us time. She was planning on evacuating the colony, but. Things went south.”

He blankly stares at the lamp on Anderson’s desk. The news is still on in the background, the same headline on loop. Over and over and over. The lightbulb blurs. _Three hundred thousand. Gone in less than a minute. Faces stuck, staring at the sky._

“That’s not—that’s not enough, sir. To justify this. Not sure anything is.”

Anderson sets his drink down, dragging the back of his hand over his bloodshot eyes. Kaidan’s never seen him look so worn out. “Not that it helps, but I think Shepard is aware it’s not justified. Probably why she turned herself in. Said she’d be fully on board with whatever measures we doled out.”

Kaidan’s shoulders slump, voice dead. No use in words. No use in anything at all.

The thread inside him. Broken.

* * *

Kaidan slows down to a sluggish walk, pulse thumping in his ears. Checks the time—his pace is a few seconds faster than last week. It’s something. Hands on hips, he stares out at the stark blue water. Sun’s not up yet. Wouldn’t matter if it were. Not with all the dense, dark fog in front of him.

Distantly, faintly, lights from high-rises glimmer in the gaps of the fog. Ships. Docks. Safe and sound. Unburned. His gaze flicks to his scuffed running shoes. They’re damn lucky that skyline’s still in one piece. That the batarian government hasn’t declared war yet. 

_304,492._

That’s the final death toll. 

His stiff fingers claw into the sides of his jacket. That number. All he gets are the skin-melting, glowing-bone images tangled up in it—it’s too big to imagine. Too much. 

Yeah. He sure is lucky he’s not staring at his city embroiled in flames right now.

_The Reapers were going to invade. I had no other choice._

He scowls at the asphalt as her quiet, cracking voice pushes into his head. 

She really did do this.

Fingertips itch. Another runner sprints by him, orange jacket gleaming. Kaidan’s thighs tense, about to pitch back into a run too. But the gnawing in his head. The itching under his nails. 

His omni’s on before he can stop himself. Lighting up the edges of his face in the foggy gloom. The trial was a week ago. He had class during it so he couldn’t go and see her for himself—that was probably a good thing—but there was a recording. He’s watched it a few times over now. Too many, maybe.

Flipping through the footage, he pauses on a frame of her face when she’s on the stand. A gust of wind whips off the ocean, biting at his cheeks and hands, but he doesn’t move. Stares at that frame. 

It’s her eyes. That’s what he keeps coming back to. Hooded, bloodshot, glazed. 

Dead.

He shuts it off, the stomach ache he’s had ever since he saw that first headline rolling through him with a vengeance. God, it’s so _many_ innocent people dead. In less than a minute. Because of her. Ada. Commander Shepard. Reapers, yeah, but. But even that. 

It just doesn’t make any sense. All the fears he’s been shoving away for months, all the times he’s given her the benefit of the doubt, all of it was pointless. Trying to believe that the kind, tender woman he loved was still behind that Cerberus-marked face of hers? Nothing but a stupid, blind lie he was telling himself to feel better. To avoid the truth.

There’s no denying it. Not anymore. He really did love someone who had _this_ inside her. Someone who was never safe.

The fog lightens, morphing into a milky white. Sun’s coming up. He shifts on his feet. He should get back. Get ready for work. 

He swallows the knot in his throat and zips up his jacket. Yeah. Okay. Things are pretty terrible all around right now, but he’s gotta get home. Shower. His kids need him, no matter how tough it is to drag himself there. To be two blocks away from her cell. They’re just young biotics. Scared. Worried. And if Ada’s story is true, if the Reapers really are a few months away, or if the batarians choose to invade—he has to do everything he can to make sure they’re prepared.

He’s gotta keep moving. No matter what.

* * *

Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep _moving._

But Ada’s face is on every television screen. That impossible number right along with it. His students stop talking the second he walks into the room, and Clarke’s always giving him these looks out of the corner of his eye. Like the kid’s worried about _him._ Nielsen stops baking. Kaidan turns on the radio and there it is, Bahak, Reapers, Shepard. War and not war. Defenders and critics. Batarian response. Escalation. Aid. Shepard. 

There’s no escaping it. Not at work, not on his morning runs, not with his friends, not inside his own damn head. Even when they promote him to Major, at the shiny, glossy ceremony, it’s on his mind. Chewing. Sometimes Kaidan wishes he could leave. Go somewhere else. Somewhere where the Reapers don’t exist. Where he never met Ada.

It’s a dreary, wet Tuesday morning when Perez interrupts his lecture.

“Hey, sir, how come we’re not learning how to reave? I know it’s hard, but if the asari can do it, we should be able to, right? I mean. We need to be ready for anything.”

Kaidan stops writing on the board. Turns to face the class. Perez is chewing on her lip—she’s been more anxious than usual lately. Her dusty skin paler, dark circles under her eyes. Always checking the news. Always wanting to push herself harder.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but it’s not physically possible. Not unless you want to melt your implant and get a brain-bleed.”

“Sir, come on. With how things are shaping up, well. We need to be ready.”

A sigh. He gives her a hard, worried look. “That’s gonna be a definite no. Sorry. I doubt the Alliance would appreciate my students getting brain damage. You’re gonna have to trust me on this one, alright? No reaving. That’s an order.”

A few grumbles. Perez sighs and looks back at her notes, but she drops it. For now. Kaidan frowns. Tries to get back on track with his lecture. 

God, he better not come to work tomorrow to a bunch of dead students.

As he’s talking, though, there’s a prickling feeling at the back of his head. Reaving. It _is_ impossible for humans, right? That’s what his superiors always told him. He’s heard of fringe cases, but they ended in tragedy. He doesn’t want his kids trying it. That’s for sure.

Still. What about _him?_

No. He shakes himself out of it, focusing hard on the holoboard in front of him. It’ll just melt his implant. And kill him. 

Kaidan tries it out a few weeks later. 

He couldn’t get the idea out of his head. After class that day he went home and spent all night looking into it instead of staring at the news. And then he just fell deeper into the research, the puzzle, spending all of his free time on it. It’s a relief. To have something to focus on that’s not Ada, or war, or Reapers, or Bahak. No one’s talking about them on dark-web biotic forums.

The problem he keeps running into is that he can only practice it on living targets. Things that have a nervous system to reave apart. While he’s been able to drill the physical sequences themselves, there’s been no biotics. So if he’s gonna do it, it’ll have to be a field test. Which is dangerous as hell. Still, all the research says if he’s careful and precise enough, he won’t melt anything. Well. Probably.

They’re on a frozen moon in a cluster he can’t remember the name of. Apparently, no slaver bases want to invest in heating, because they can see their breath in the dark. Their orders are to clear it quietly and grab the intel on slaver movements, and then get the hell out of dodge. It’s standard stuff, things his students have been excelling at for months. Kaidan’s alert, sure, but there’s also a side of him that’s looking at it like a training exercise. The reaving will be fine. Might give him a headache, but he can handle a headache.

Perez is taking point, and Clarke’s right behind her. Dimitri and Nielsen tail them. Kaidan’s at the back. No movement yet, but the prickling at the back of his neck is telling him they’re not alone.

The door in front of them hisses open. Two unaware guards.

Nielsen gives the signal, eyes hard.

His other students burst into the room, skin crackling with blue. A quiet thud, a grunt, a snapped neck.

The door across the room opens, and the room explodes with gunfire.

Kaidan lunges forward, drawing his pistol. A shot. Corner of his vision: Perez and Dimitri spread out, taking out another guard with two well-aimed shots. More armored grunts rush in, but Perez’s thrumming singularity stops them cold. Kaidan sweeps the room, clocking each guard, each student, each flash of blue.

Okay. Things are under control. 

He hunkers down behind a shipping crate. Deep breath. Deeper breath. Right into the bottom of the stomach. A long, long exhale. Relaxing his clenched jaw; letting his shoulders loosen. Another breath. Alright.

Back on his feet, and his eyes lock on a guard with swamp-green armor. Clarke’s distracted him, movements steady and calm. Just like Kaidan’s practiced: he steps one foot forward. His implant heats up, arm pulling back and tensing up. He pictures each strand of nerve, each blood vessel, each fiber of muscle in the body in front of him.

_What the hell are you doing?_

Ada’s worried, low voice cuts right through his focus and his arm falters. An image of a hand on his shoulder, her eyes wide, brow furrowed.

He shuts his eyes. _Go away._ Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Long. Longer.

A shot bounces off his shields. Perez shouts something on comms, gruff.

He opens his eyes back up. Reaches deeper into the body in front of him. His implant heats up. Searing-hot. A warning would be beeping right about now if he hadn’t shut that functionality off. 

_Kaidan. Don't. You’re going to hurt yourself._

He grits his teeth. Concentrates hard on the way his shoulders are burning. 

_You don’t get a say anymore, Ada._

A tense twist of his arm, and he forces a pinpoint of blue into a few strands of muscle. Sweat breaks out on his forehead, but he pushes deeper, wrapping gravity around the strings of the nervous system. The back of his head is on fire. Thick, heavy pressure builds behind his eyes. 

Crap. He can’t—he can’t maintain it. 

Clarke is next to him, his brow furrowed, but Kaidan ignores him.

One more pinpoint inside the system. One more. That’s it. His hand shakes. The taste of coppery blood at the back of his throat.

 _Don’t do this._

A deep breath. 

He pushes, twists, wrenches the fibers inside the slaver’s body apart. Pulling and ripping, each pinpoint of heavy gravity inside the body drags in a different direction. Capillaries tear open. Nerves split apart. The body convulses. Falls to their knees. There’s a ragged, heaving scream, and he doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but it doesn’t matter because he did it, he actually _did_ it, and Ada’s not here and he never knew her, and he really did it. He _reaved_.

His implant stabs. A hot, twisting knife right into the bones of his head. He hisses loud. Clarke shouts something but it’s fuzzy. Hands on his arm. Black spots bleed over the room in front of him. He tries his damn best to steady himself. Worried, lined faces in front of him. Another stab, deeper this time, a choked noise.

He hits the floor.

When Kaidan comes to, he’s in HQ’s medbay. Sticky electrodes are itchy on his temples and a deep, aching throbbing is in the back of his head. A stern looking doctor writes something on his datapad.

“Major Alenko. Your students were incredibly worried about you. You were lucky they got you out of that base in one piece.”

The doc keeps talking in a droning voice. Good news is he didn’t die. His implant’s okay, and there’s no brain damage. Clarke, apparently, took the lead, dragging him out of fire and getting him back to the shuttle, dazed as Kaidan was. Not that he remembers any of that.

Bad news is his superiors order him to never try that again.

When he hauls his aching body back to the gym, intent on apologizing to his students for putting them in danger like that—and to thank them for saving his ass—twelve worried faces stare at him.

“Damn it, sir. You scared the hell out of us. Didn’t you warn _us_ not to reave?”

“Nielsen thought you were dead. Almost cried on the shuttle back.”

“We’re glad you’re okay.”

There’s a tupperware of lemon bars just for him.


	8. The Pulse Still Alive

Kaidan pours the oats into the simmering water, datapad in his other hand. He absentmindedly scrolls through the progress report he’s been working on for Clarke. The kid’s been taking on more leadership positions within the team lately, and he seems to be settling in with the others just fine. But Kaidan’s still a little worried about him. Something's been off about the way he’s been moving in combat. There’s an edge to it. Recklessness, maybe?

He puts the datapad down with a sigh. Gets out a ripe, mottled pear and a knife. Then again, he’s always a little worried about everything, so. Could just be that. Still, he should check in with Clarke on Monday. Yeah. He’ll do that.

He slices up the pear and stirs the oatmeal. Soft, fuzzy pink light bathes the kitchen. He checks the time. Good. It’s still early, so he should beat traffic for his drive up to the orchard. Nice day out too. Good for the weed-pulling Dad wanted a hand with. Might get his mind off work.

His omni beeps. It's Anderson. _Anderson?_

A frown settles onto his face. Odd for a Saturday morning. 

“Anderson? What’s—”

Anderson interrupts him, voice gruff. “We need you at HQ. It’s an emergency.”

Kaidan grips the wooden spoon in his hand. _Emergency?_ Panicked images flash through him: a classroom full of smoke, flames licking the walls. Perez limp on the floor, her implant melted into her skull. Or a batarian fleet looming over the mountains, his students frozen in shock, eyes stuck on the hulls.

“What happened?”

“The reports are patchy, but we think—well. We think it might be the Reapers invading, Kaidan. Get to the defense council’s chambers and we’ll…” 

Wait. Did he just say _Reapers?_

The spoon clatters to the floor, his hand pressing over his mouth. Oh. God. It’s happening? The thing they’ve been—no. Can’t be. It's too soon. His gaze darts over to the window. The hazy, pastel-pink sky is clear. Quiet. Maybe it’s a false alarm. 

But maybe it’s not.

“My students.” 

Anderson—right, he’s still on a call—exhales slow on the other side of the line. “We don’t have the time. You’ve prepped them for this, yes?”

“I’ve tried, yeah, but I still need to—”

“I’m sorry. There isn’t enough time. Get to HQ. We need you.”

Kaidan swallows hard, his hands prickling and cold. “Aye, aye. Sir.”

The call ends. The oatmeal boils over, white foam hissing and steaming onto the stovetop. But Kaidan’s paralyzed, all his joints locked. Like he’s been injected with that Collector-swarm stuff all over again. 

Outside, the city glitters quiet. He’s not taking it in. All he sees are snarling husks, high-rises engulfed in dark smoke, apple trees scorched, his parents swollen and dead in their kitchen, Perez, Clarke, Nielsen and everyone bloodied, limp, chests split through with spikes. Caleb and Liv with their heads blown off. A Reaper, looming. Ten Reapers. A thousand, blotting out the sun.

He grips the edge of the counter, knuckles white. Tries to catch his breath. Air’s too thin.

The Reapers. They’re almost here. What can he do? There has to be something. Anything.

Three tries later, his clumsy, numb fingers succeed at turning his omni back on. His hand hovers over the orange glow. Calling twenty students individually would take too long. Anderson said it himself: there’s no time. His orders are to get to HQ. Another glance towards the sky. 

He shakily types out a mass text to his students, marked urgent. About the invasion. Their orders. Going underground. 

_This is not a drill. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more warning, but if you follow protocol, you’ll have a fighting chance. Call each other. Coordinate like we’ve practiced. Have each others backs._

_I get how terrifying this feels, but you’ve trained for it. I know you can do this._

_Stay safe._

His eyes sting with hot tears. God, a fucking _text._ On a Saturday morning when he’s sure as hell half of them are still asleep. Because they’re kids. That’s it. And they aren’t ready. Strong, brave, smart, yeah—but they shouldn’t have to do this. He should—he should've—damn it. Damn it! 

He’s calling his parents before he knows it. Mom first. No time and HQ waits but he has to. Even if it kills him. The dial tone rings. And rings. And rings. A flock of birds floats by outside his window, backed by that hazy pink. 

No answer.

He tries his dad. More ringing and ringing and no one picks up. Kaidan bites into his mouth, hard, as burning, desperate panic shoots through his arms and legs. Come on. Come _on._ Now’s not the time to sleep in. He sends them a text, just so there’s something. Some warning. A chance.

He tries to call Liv. She’s on shore leave somewhere in Italy, but maybe—

No answer. His throat strangles. He needs to get moving. Anderson gave him an order and with every second he stands here, the Reapers are moving close. Closer. 

Caleb—wasn't he in New Zealand?—doesn’t answer, either. Jesus, did everyone he’s ever met decide to switch off their omnis today? It’s a Saturday, sure, but this is ridiculous.

_Maybe they’re already dead._

His shoulder sparks with blue, muscles tight and trembling. No. They just need to wake up. They need to get somewhere safe. How long has it been since Anderson called? The pot of oatmeal. It hisses and steams, the sour, thick smell of burned oats filling the air.

_Get to HQ, Alenko._

Kaidan shuts off his omni, still trembling, but he has to move. Move or die. He’ll figure out what the hell to do with his parents, students and everyone once he gets to HQ. Once he has more intel. Okay. Yeah.

He snaps into motion. Stove off. Burned pot of oatmeal tossed in the sink. A backpack. Medi-gel refills. Credit chit. Change of clothes. Toothbrush. Migraine meds. Water bottle. Nutrition bars.

He’s digging through his desk for his ID's when his hands touch crinkled wrapping paper. 

Ada’s birthday gift. The otter keychain. The thing he’s been holding onto for years. He hesitates.

No. There’s no time to decide. He grabs it, stuffing it into his pack. 

He’s at the door, shoving his feet into his boots. 

_The Reapers._

Kaidan takes one last desperate, watery look at his apartment. That hazy light shines onto the couch, the kitchen counter, the scuffed dining table. All the places he got stuck in. Spent nights shaky and pale in. 

Some part of him knows he’s never seeing it again. Not like this.

He closes the door and heads outside.

On the way over to HQ—a ten minute walk, five if he’s fast, and he is—he keeps trying to call his parents, his students, his friends. The dial tone is all he hears as he keeps his eyes glued to the horizon. 

No one picks up.

The big, blocky building of HQ rises up the distance. Shuttles come and go. Uniforms rush in. The numbness spreads to the bones in his forearms. His friends will be fine. Parents. His students, too. They’re strong. Capable. He’s given them warning. They know what to do. 

That same gnawing thought: _or maybe they’re all already dead._

Kaidan heads through the glassy doors. Clips his shoulder with blue armor. Doesn’t feel it. Another glance out the window. Clear.

He gets to the waiting room of the defense committee. No sign of Anderson yet and what was the plan? A briefing. Or something. He already knows it’s not gonna be enough.

Wide-eyed people in their shiny blues jostle past him, a blur. Reapers. They’re closing in. Jolts of electricity keep shooting down his arms. Under his nails. He bounces on his feet. Sweat. A woman in uniform hands him a datapad, shows him the reports, he’s Major Alenko, right, right, yes, those colonies have gone dark. Yes. Warn the committee. Yes. 

It’s really happening. Everything they fought against—about to get here. Ada was right, and they’re not ready and no one’s picked up his calls. Or answered his texts. Could be dead already.

The woman with the datapad leaves. Anderson finally shows up, giving him a heavy nod. “Alenko. You made it.”

“Anderson. We need to—”

The rest of his sentence sticks in his throat, his vision tunneling. Behind Anderson—tall shoulders, honey-brown hair, the edge of an elbow he’d recognize anywhere.

“Ada.” 

That tall frame goes stiff. Turns around.

“Kaidan?” 

It’s Horizon all over again: the way she says his name. It pulls on him like a magnet. Three years of putting her away, of sickening doubt, and he still can’t help it. She’s got longer hair than in the trial footage—so long she’s pulled it into a messy, low bun. And she’s paler. Thinner. Those lines of red cut through gaunt cheeks.

Just like the trial vid, though. It’s her eyes that startle him the most.

They’re dead.

Somewhere, somehow, they’re having a conversation. Awkward, stilted pleasantries. Talking about promotions. His mouth’s moving but all he can focus on is her gaze. Flat. Lifeless. _Dead_.

Then she tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear, fingers shaky and nails bitten.

A surge of fragmented memories takes him hostage: those same fingers trailing through his hair. Mint tea on her breath. A sound like a dog’s throat getting stepped on. Her jaw clenched in the green, murky light of Ilos. Big, bold laughter at one of his deadpan jokes in the mess. The smell of rose-petal perfume and mop water at the funeral. Her eyes sparkling and bright in the blue glow of the aquarium. The nauseating taste of vanilla nutrition shakes. Tender looks at him across the armory. Cerberus logo stamped on her gun on Horizon. A shaved head. Her warm hand interlaced with his on the chilly pier. A whole system blown to dust, skin and muscle sliding off bone. The Normandy in pieces. Him. Her. In pieces. 

He blinks it away, dizzy and reeling. She’s gone. Shut behind steel doors. He’s left standing there in that waiting room, the floor unsteady. His stomach sick. 

Reapers. Ada. Everything on top of everything else.

_What do I do? What do I—?_

A shadow behind him. That’s the only warning he gets—like a cloud passing over the sun.

The room shatters into glass and heat. 

He’s dazed and gasping on the tiles, his elbow throbbing with deep, white-hot pain. Blood drips down his chin. Shards of glass are dug into his scalp. And he’s stumbling to his feet, finding a gun, gripping it in his shaky hands.

_What. What the the hell do I do?_

He drags himself through rubble. Checks pulses on motionless, seared bodies and hopes to god he won’t recognize any of their faces. Scrapes his hands raw clawing himself over loose chunks of building.

Reapers. Here. _Reapers_. Crushing his home into dust.

And he’s alone.

_What am I supposed to—where—?_

His bruised legs stagger him to the spaceport. Anderson on comms, telling him to go there. He pulls himself through the blinding smoke and the gray, choking dust from collapsed buildings. The smoke, the dust. He gags on it, chokes, would do anything to breathe clean, smokeless air. Must mean his apartment is gone. There’s no space inside him for that to sink in. The words _Normandy SR-2_ burn through him, but it’s the only way out.

On the bridge, coughing. Joker’s there, alive, panicked. Last time Kaidan saw him he was egg-shell pale. Head in shaky hands. How are they here? Now?

The Normandy—no, the SR-2, this place is all wrong but there’s no time to think about it—lurches into the air. Kaidan makes it down to the armory and it’s not engulfed in flames this time around. He mechanically searches through a first-aid kit, cleaning the ash and blood off his face with chilly antiseptic wipes. The shaking in his hands is bad. Worse than ever. 

All this is worse than ever. No nightmare he’s had over the past few years could’ve come close.

The hangar door, humming. He pushes off the wall, heading straight towards it. It opens slow, letting in murky light and black smoke. Smoke of his city. Clarke. Nielsen with his lemon bars. Perez with her determined gaze. His mom, eyes crinkled, his father’s calloused hands. Are they dead in the smoke, the crush, the dark? 

No way to know. And it’s killing him.

A blurry figure sprints towards the ramp, arms pumping, legs leaping across the rocks. Dirty ash smudges their face. Blood drips from their nose. Scars glow underneath it all, slicing through their eyebrow and cutting through cheekbones. And the eyes: an empty, desperate look. Like a trapped animal.

_Wait. Is that supposed to be—?_

The figure leaps up onto the ramp. Kaidan reaches towards them out of instinct. Their hands grip. For that one second of contact, he _recognizes_ her. It's Ada. God, of course it is. The strong fingers, the warmth in her palm, the tensing of her wrist. A hundred different times of her hand in his—the pier, the armory, the hotel rooms and cafes and shuttle-rides, and that same grip: sturdy fingers, heat of her palm, the pull in her wrist. And now. Here. In hell.

After so much, it hasn’t changed.

She stares at him for a long second, a lined expression he can’t read flickering over her face, and she lets go. Stares out into the burning haze as the ramp closes. Then she turns her back on him. Stalks over to the console, wiping ash and blood off her face. The other marine—there’s another person here?—argues with her. Vega. She snaps at him, snarls something out, gives him an icy glare. Kaidan just stands there. Stunned into silence. 

More orders. They’re going to Mars. The vacant, hard look in her eyes. A look he’s had nightmares about. He stares at the floor as they hurtle through dark space. Ada is dead silent, clicking on armor and loading up her gun. 

Kaidan doesn’t know what to do with any of this. He was supposed to be at the orchard right now pulling weeds out of an overgrown garden. He was supposed to be laughing at his mom’s joke, or finishing Clarke’s progress report in the guest room, or eating blueberry pie while the radio hummed in the background. Not this.

The light of this armory is too bright. No one is saying anything. He’s here. In a Normandy that’s not the Normandy. Ash from his city is stuck under his nails, his lungs raw with its smoke. And the person leading him into all this, the person he loved, grieved, and grieved some more, the person that’s decided to take on saving the whole damn galaxy—she’s a total stranger. 

Kaidan searches through the lockers for armor that might fit him. Yeah. This is all wrong, and has no clue how the hell he’s supposed to get through it. Or make sense of it. He blindly clicks on a breastplate, the armor pinching at his shoulder. His eyes track Ada. She’s staring at her gun on the workbench, arms crossed, jaw set. Immobile. Unreadable.

His gaze drifts to her hand clenched on her bicep. That hand. He can’t get that split-second feeling of it out of his head. Warmth of the palm, roughness of her fingers, tensing of her wrist. It’s a stupid thing to focus on in the middle of an apocalypse. He knows that. Stupid. But it’s also—something. Something solid he can hold onto while his home crumbles, his students fight for their lives, his parents flee. While the ground falls out from under him.

Warmth, strength, the pounding of blood. A distant, faint hope: maybe, just maybe, there's a way through after all. For Ada. For their burning world.   
  
For him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we've reached the end, and I can't quite believe it. Diving into Kaidan's head and heart like this has been a long but rewarding journey. Thank you so, so much to everyone who's been along for the ride. It means the world, and I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
